


a pyrrhic victory

by miaouerie



Series: rebelcaptain/hunger games AU [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: (this is a Hunger Games AU), Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassian Andor-centric, Check individual chapters for specific tags, Child Murder, Davits Draven - Freeform, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Finnick Odair - Freeform, Forced Prostitution, Heavy Angst, Hunger Games Victors, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Jeron Andor - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Linear Narrative, Orson Krennic - Freeform, President Coriolanus Snow - Freeform, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unhappy Ending, Whump, Whumptober 2020, the cost of not dying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 35,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26863636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaouerie/pseuds/miaouerie
Summary: After winning his Hunger Games eight years ago, Cassian Andor has lived a miserable life under the unrelenting limelight of the Capitol. Between losing his father—who had been his mentor as a previous District 5 victor—to suicide, mentoring new tributes every year only to lose them to the viciousness of the Games, and being catered to the Capitol’s ceaseless attentions he is forced to exist as a cog in the Capitol’s entertainment machine.Until this year’s 70th Hunger Games, when District 5’s reaping yields a female tribute named Jyn Erso. Though his hope to escape the Capitol’s inexorable influence has long been extinguished, there is something about her that may change that…
Relationships: Cassian Andor & Davits Draven, Cassian Andor & Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor & Other(s), Cassian Andor/Jyn Erso
Series: rebelcaptain/hunger games AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026072
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. hanging

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Rebelcaptain/Hunger Games AU crossover structured around Whumptober 2020's prompts. Each chapter will be tagged with appropriate content warnings, but be warned: **this work focuses heavily on canon-typical prostitution (both underaged and adult), noncon/dubcon, and the effects of these traumas on a tribute who was crowned victor at age 15. Read at your own risk.** If you are uncomfortable with these topics, there are plenty of other rebelcaptain fics to enjoy on AO3. Additionally, fills will be first posted on my tumblr [miaouerie](http://www.miaouerie.tumblr.com/tagged/whumptober2020/chrono), and there are edits here that aren't reflected in the original posts. That being said, comments are well-welcomed and appreciated. :)
> 
> Note: If you want to skip all the whump and angst and get right to the rebelcaptain, you'll want to read chapters 1, 3-4, 12, 27, and 30-31.
> 
> Other pairing content by chapter:  
> Cassian/OCs - 6, 10, 11, 16, 21, 23, 26, 29  
> Cassian & Draven - 7, 13, 22  
> Cassian/Krennic - 24  
> Cassian/Finnick - 28

“Your lives are hanging in the balance of your mentor. It is _imperative_ that you listen to their direction.”

It’s the same boilerplate speech District 5’s escort, Davits Draven, has given to every one of District 5’s tributes for the past decade or so. When it came to the Capitol’s needlessly exorbitant populace, at least Draven was tolerable; he was one of few escorts who attended each reaping with the appropriate gravitas for taking away two children to die for the Capitol's entertainment every year. Cassian much preferred him over the others who insisted on more silly or celebratory personas for the job. He was more moderate by comparison, with his preference of muted colors and fabrics with understated sheen; the only real suggestion of Capitolite fashion was the man’s penchant for cravats and near-elbow length gloves. No-nonsense, a stern expression that stopped just shy of completely unfriendly. He’d been that way for as long as Cassian could remember him, all the way back to Cassian’s own Games. He was a constant in Cassian’s life in a way that very few others had stayed.

Still, Cassian barely looks up until Draven acknowledges him; until then, his gaze is trained on this year’s female tribute and the way her hands are balled tightly into fists at her sides. 

“As Cassian here is the only living victor of District 5, he will be mentoring both of you. Mealtime is in an hour; until then you are free to do as you wish, but I suggest thinking of strategy to discuss once we reconvene.” With that, Draven exits through a sliding door to an adjacent car, the sound of the door sliding shut leaving them to the rhythmic silence of the train rumbling on its tracks. 

The male tribute—a tall, stocky 16-year-old named Joule Stratton—was clearly stricken with fear. He had needed more than a nudge from a Peacekeeper to board the train, and as the train speeds through the deserts around District 5 he’s as still as a rabbit in a trap. His wide eyes take everything in, but Cassian knows he isn’t really seeing anything; the shock will wear off later, maybe before they reach the Capitol or maybe not. But the female tribute—an 18-year-old named Jyn Erso—catches his attention more.

After Draven leaves, she immediately stands up. She’s hardly taller than her district partner sitting down but her eyes flash a warning when Cassian looks up at her. There’s something simmering there, something behind the animosity that had been barely held in check when Cassian watched her walk up to the stage after her name was called at the reaping. Though he's only mentored for a few years Cassian’s come to expect the trickles and torrents of anger, fear, resignation, and hysteria from all-too-unwilling tributes. But in Jyn’s bright green eyes there’s a flash of flinty determination. She turns and exits the same way Draven left, but with hardly concealed fury: she slams the sliding door shut behind her. 

The loud crash and rattle of broken glass falling from their panes is enough to startle both Cassian and Joule, but while it doesn’t take Joule long to fall back to his silent stupor, Cassian’s struck by a notion that he tries hard to dismiss. _It’s too early. Wait until you speak to her first. Fury doesn’t always equal fight in the Arena. Don’t get your hopes up._

And yet: _What if she's the one I can bring home?_


	2. "pick who dies"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: minor character death of an OC

The female tribute reaped alongside him was named Nata Houdely. She’s just about his age, and she’s pretty: long, dark hair and brown eyes the same shade as his. She stands just a little taller than him. They could’ve been siblings. 

Cassian’s stylist says as much to Nata’s stylist, who lets out such an unnatural, shrieky staccato of a laugh that Nata nudges Cassian with her elbow and whispers, “Does she have something stuck in her throat?”

It sounded like a high pitched _ee-ee-ee-ee_ noise that reminds Cassian of a whistling kettle on the stove. The two of them keep quiet with their snickering until they’re whisked away to the Remake Center. Afterwards when Draven comes to escort them back to their floor, they crack up over each other’s impersonations of their prep teams’ oddities.

Nata is _funny_. They’re the same age but if Cassian ever had a sister, he would have pictured her: they giggle over each other’s impressions of the Capitol accent (Cassian’s was better), talk about their vanished scars and moles from before the Remake Center visit, and make fun of the weirdest looking Capitol fashion trends they’ve seen so far.

As they return to their rooms Cassian feels like he’s in better spirits than at the start of the day; the sickening thought that today concluded their first full day in the Capitol in the countdown to the 62nd Hunger Games only comes to mind as he falls into a dreamless sleep. But the next morning, Jeron is frowning at him over the breakfast table. 

When they disperse to prepare for the first training day, he waits until Nata and her mentor leave. “Cassian. What do you think of Nata?”

His 14-year old son considers the question. “She’s funny, and we get along well.” Jeron is still looking at him expectantly for what must be a different answer so Cassian tries, “Should I ally with her?”

His father sighs, touching a hand to his temple. “I was worried about that. Listen, the first day of group training is today. Irga is certainly talking strategy with her right now. And I don’t believe her plans will include you in them.”

Cassian can feel his cheeks get hot, the way they do preceding an argument. “How can you say that already?” 

“Because I asked her not to.”

_What?_ “Why?”

“Realistically, we can only bring one of you home. _You_ are my utmost priority, and Irga understands that. You’ll do better to avoid an attachment that will be severed. It might even be by your own hand. I don’t want you to get attached to someone like that.” 

His father’s voice is quiet and firm, but in it, there’s a desperate plea. Cassian can barely hear it over the ringing in his ears. He doesn’t want to think about it, not from even before he was reaped and not ever in his life, but when confronted with the reality of the situation like this he can’t: his father is a mentor in the Hunger Games— _his_ mentor now—and the Games must come first.

-

“My father… he said we shouldn’t make an alliance.” Nata’s brown eyes widen, but before she can respond Cassian continues, “We could make one anyway. If you want?”

-

Nata dies in the bloodbath. Cassian runs. 


	3. manhandled/held at gunpoint

The tribute train pulls into a depot for refueling. They’re not to disembark until they reach the Capitol, so Cassian’s sitting in the dining car when he hears a loud commotion outside.

He moves quickly to the window. To his surprise, he sees Jyn wrestling with two Peacekeepers on the train platform, with another squad of Peacekeepers quickly joining the fracas. They swarm around the struggling 18-year old until she’s obscured from view; it’s only when Draven appears that they pull back into orderly lines. Jyn is still fighting with three Peacekeepers who have their hands on her, but it’s not until a fourth Peacekeeper forces her to her knees and holds a gun to her head that she stops struggling.

Draven’s saying something to her. Cassian can’t hear his words this far away separated by glass, but he can see Jyn’s fierce expression simmer down to a glower that he can feel the burn of even from where he watches them in the car.

Then they manhandle her back onto the train.

-

Cassian slips into the adjacent cabin just as the Peacekeepers bang into the dining car with their quarry. Draven keeps his distance behind them, looking unreadable as ever. They force Jyn into a chair at the table, where her wrists are cuffed behind her back; she cranes her neck to glare at their Capitol escort, who remains standing by the door. The sounds of the air circulation system drown out what sounds Cassian can hear through the pane of broken glass from when Jyn slammed the door earlier, but Draven only says a sentence or two before he turns to leave. Cassian waits for the man to exit before entering the car himself.

One of the Peacekeepers approaches him, clearly intending to stand guard at this end of the car. Before they can say something to him Cassian holds up his hands placatingly. “Don’t mind me, just needed to stretch my legs.”

“Sir, this car is restricted. No access until suppertime.”

He tries a different track. “That’s my tribute in there, I want to talk—”

“Sorry.” The Peacekeeper doesn’t sound sorry at all, and adjusts the rifle they still have in their arms. “Suppertime only.”

-

Just before suppertime, they reconvene in a separate car to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. Jyn is the last to join them, escorted by two Peacekeepers. Her wrists are still cuffed.

It’s not until the recap is finished and they head into the dining cabin that Draven addresses Jyn. “I will allow your cuffs to be removed provided that you don’t attempt escape again. If you do, you can expect to be put back in restraints until we reach the Capitol. Is that clear?”

He stares her down until Jyn grumbles her assent. But she doesn’t try anything once the cuffs are removed. At least, Cassian observes, she’s not as reckless as her earlier escape attempt seemed. He could work with a tribute who knew how to fight, and how to pick and choose their battles.

The multiple dinner courses arrive and are cleared in silence. At the conclusion of their meal, when one of the Peacekeepers moves towards Jyn Cassian holds up a hand. “I’ll escort her back to her quarters.”

They’re permitted to pass without accompaniment. As the door to the next compartment slides shut behind them, Jyn stops Cassian with a growl. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing.” At Jyn’s silent doubt he adds, “I saw your escape attempt on the train platform.”

Jyn’s eyes widen, before she looks down and away. “I’m not going to go to my death without a fight. I know they can’t kill me when they need me for their entertainment.”

Cassian sighs. “You’re not wrong.”

Jyn narrows her eyes in suspicion. “Then what are you really asking here?”

“I want to know what your angle is.” When Jyn doesn’t offer a reply he says, “I need to know that if I’m to help you.”

“Help me? None of your tributes have won yet. They’ve all died,” Jyn points out. Then she adds immediately after, “I shouldn’t have said that. But I don’t know if I can trust you like that.”

Cassian tries for a different tactic. “You seem like you’ve been trained. Did you learn that fighting for yourself, or—”

Jyn suddenly cuts his words off with a kiss, standing up on her tiptoes to press him backwards until he’s pressed up against the wall of the cabin. It's a perfunctory kiss; she pulls back slightly to hiss in his ear, “What are you doing? There’s no way this cabin _isn’t_ _bugged_.”

Over her head, Cassian can see the shadow of a Peacekeeper through the glass panes of the door a second before the door itself slides open. Thinking quickly, he settles his hands on her waist, pulls her closer to him. Jyn startles at the sound of the door but Cassian drops his head to her ear, his tongue moving in a trace of its curve. Her left hand flies up to grip his forearm tight, digging in with her nails.

“Oi. None of that,” the Peacekeeper says, irritated. Cassian makes a show of exasperation at being interrupted, lifting his head to level a glare.

It works. The Peacekeeper looks a little uncomfortable. “Well. There’s more of that in the Capitol for you, Cassian. Get the girl to bed before I put cuffs back on her.” Still, they turn around and exit, leaving mentor and tribute alone in the gently swaying car.

Cassian immediately drops his hands at the same time Jyn takes a step back. “Sor—”

“—Sorry—”

They both stop, try apologizing again, before Jyn ends up just reaching for Cassian’s hand and tugs him in the direction of her sleeping compartment. His heart is hammering in his chest when Jyn pulls him down again, gentler this time, her voice a whisper in his ear. “Sorry for that. I just needed you to stop talking, the Capitol has ears everywhere—”

This time it’s Cassian who quiets her words with a kiss. He leans into the dark curtain of her hair, tucking some strands behind the same ear. “Please. Tell me. Believe me, I want to help you in any way possible. But I’ll ask again in private. There’s a place in the Tributes’ Tower for that.”


	4. caged

The Opening Ceremony comes and goes without a hitch. Cassian watches Jyn and Joule be paraded in their own chariot towards the City Center and the President’s mansion on an enormous television screen, which takes up an entire wall of the penthouse suite he’s situated in for Atticus Fenestre’s Opening Ceremony viewing soiree. President Snow didn’t waste any time in booking him, but at least this is his only appointment before meeting back up with the District 5 team at the Training Center.

“Kay did a wonderful job with their outfits as always, Cassian,” Atticus says in a lilting voice that had to have been surgically altered to sound like that. “Hasn’t he, darling?”

“Certainly!” his wife Seraphina exclaims. “He always seems so _arrogant_ and _dour_ during his interviews, but the man certainly has vision.” The rest of their gathering titters their agreement. 

“Though I must say, the stylists and Remake Center can only really do so much for the lackluster tributes,” a man with a purple coif says. “That male tribute of yours does not look like he will amount to much in the Arena. Any thoughts as to which of your tributes will fare better…?”

Cassian is saved from answering by the operator of the Capitol’s rumor mill herself, Peridot Starlight—the host of the prime time talk show, Capitol Spotlight with Starlight. She lets out a light laugh to draw attention to herself before lowering her voice. “Well, Eustis. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the clips?” She gives them all a coy smirk. “Ah, of course you haven’t. I bought exclusive coverage rights for the Day Zero arrivals, which will be aired tomorrow on my show. But tonight, my dear friends, you’re getting the _Peri-exclusive_.”

She gestures for an Avox, and soon enough the television screen’s Opening Ceremony coverage is replaced by high-definition footage of District 5’s tribute train slowing as it arrived in the Capitol. The footage is then replayed at a slower frame rate and zoomed in, and through the train’s window Cassian can see himself holding out a hand to Jyn. The clip doesn’t have audio of course, but the audience can draw their own conclusions from watching their lips move and their facial expressions before Jyn takes his hand and stands up. The Cassian in the clip looks to have his hand resting on her lower back as they wave to the crowd gathered on one side of the tracks, but Cassian knows the truth—Jyn’s smaller stature is partially obscured by the window sill, and aside from an initial light touch to direct her attention to the crowd outside only his fingertips touched the small of her back. Jyn didn’t mind, but Cassian knew what the hint of intimacy would look like to the public.

“And, and _, and_ ,” Peridot calls over the rising clamor of excitement, “I’ve got the scoop from sources on the train that things were getting a _little_ steamy last night as well. How positively solicitous. Playing favorites already?”

It’s been so long since he’s played into the Capitol’s hands like this that Cassian doesn’t have to fake the nervousness in his smile; he hopes it comes across as bashful. Whether or not this works is going to depend entirely on him. “She’s intriguing. You’ll have to wait and see.”

-

After dinner Cassian takes Jyn up to the Tribute Tower's roof, where there’s a beautiful garden with flower beds and potted trees and the tinkling of a thousand windchimes drowns out the slight buzz of the invisible electric field surrounding the Tower. It was a place he might have called a sanctuary, though Snow kept his schedule busy enough that he hardly spent time up here. Tonight might be the only night he can talk to Jyn like this.

Although their conversation is muted they are still under surveillance, so Cassian takes Jyn’s hand and guides her to a pathway bordered with blooms. She doesn’t let go of his hand, thankfully, and Jyn makes sure to speak quietly enough that her voice doesn’t carry over the windchimes. “My father was taken away when I was eight. He was the chief engineer for District 5's plant operations, and he wanted to research energy efficiency in Panem. To see if there was a way to eliminate power outages in the other districts. And the Capitol didn’t like that.”

She lets out a heavy exhale. “I haven’t seen him since then. My mother was angry for a long time—both of us were. But the two of us couldn’t do anything. She looked for some kind of support group, but you know the Capitol won’t let something like that exist.”

Cassian nods. The Treaty of Treason had something called the Riot Clause, which banned gatherings of people for unofficial purposes. Official purposes such as the yearly reaping and public punishments.

“But it didn’t stop her from seeking individual people out. We weren’t the only ones who had someone we loved disappear because of the Capitol. She was good at helping others that way. To let them know they weren’t alone… Eventually the Peacekeepers caught on to her. That she had been talking to a lot of people who were angry and hurting. But she had a contact who helped her disappear before the Peacekeepers could get to her. He knew people who could make it look like her death was an accident in one of the power plants.” 

They stop under the boughs of a large tree. When she turns to face Cassian her eyes are glittering—there’s moisture there, from unshed tears or passion, Cassian can’t tell. But he finds himself drawn to her words all the same. “That was almost three years ago. After my mother went into hiding her contact took me in. He taught me a lot of things… everything he could so I could be helpful to the group of people that helped my mother get away. I’ve done a lot to help their cause in District 5. They were going to help me disappear, reunite me with my mother as soon as I finished one last assignment…” Jyn’s voice turns brittle. “And then I was reaped.” 

Both of them startle at the loud sound of fireworks being set off down below; after shooting upwards they explode high above but close enough to brighten the rooftop garden, and the multi-colored display refracts off the silver of the windchimes in dazzling drops of light. Loud cheers can be heard from the streets below. When Jyn turns to look at him, Cassian can see the resolve in her eyes.

“That’s my angle. I’ve trusted you with my story. And I’m going to trust you with my life in the Arena,” she says resolutely. “I can’t let it end here. I have to get back home, I need to get back in contact with Saw and his people… I want to see my mother again.” 

“I believe you, Jyn.” Cassian says. He squeezes her hand. “You’ll have to trust that I’m going to get you out. And I will.”

He doesn’t talk about the cost, what he knows it will be. For this moment, he can pretend that all they are is just what the hidden cameras are seeing: a couple taking an evening stroll, sharing secrets in the dark, making promises to one another. Even if half that statement isn’t true. 


	5. rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: graphic descriptions of canon-typical violence, minor character deaths (OCs)

Aside from the clearing that the Cornucopia was in, the 62nd Hunger Games Arena was a huge grassy field, but with grass so tall that the tributes who got away from the bloodbath effectively disappeared into it. Spaced far and wide were single-standing pine trees, towering over the grassy sea of green as the only available bastions for shelter. But the grass was so tall that only tributes who had some luck would accidentally stumble upon them.

Cassian wasn’t so lucky. But on the third day he did stumble upon the tributes from District 11 and the tree that they must have been using as a base. They were making far too much noise for what would be prudent, and they definitely didn’t see or hear Cassian observing them from the thicket of grass surrounding the small clearing. As he gets closer, he finds out why.

“Arbor, we have to kill him,” a female voice is saying. Cassian mentally plays back the list of tributes who are still alive. The speaker must be Teak, then. “Why did you even bother to drag him back here? When he wakes up he’s going to kill both of us!”

When Cassian chances a peek through the grass, he’s crouched at the eye level of Teak’s knee, staring from behind her tanned legs at a body on the ground, past which he can see Arbor standing close by. The unconscious heap looks to be the male tribute from District 2, Helix. And Arbor’s hand has a firm grip on the handle of a double-headed axe. 

“We don’t _have_ to,” Arbor’s insisting, his voice pitched in a way that indicates how long they’ve been arguing for. “That’s exactly what they want us to do.”

“Yes! That’s why Fauna sent you the axe. Because she and Lobo agree that you can kill with it better than me! Whoever sent it most definitely didn’t mean for me to have it.” A pause. “It’d be a cleaner kill than I could do, that’s for sure. Less… chopping.”

“We shouldn’t have to kill though, Teak. That’s the bloodsport that the Capitol wants to see. That’s why they sent an axe, out of all the weapons they could’ve. But see, instead of becoming murderers we can lay down low, survive ‘til the end like the smart ones do—”

“And what, get away with not killing each other?” Teak scoffs. “It’s in the rules. They’ll have only one of us be the victor.”

“We can cross that bridge when we get there. For now, I think we should wait for this guy to wake up and see if he wants to ally—”

“—which I’m _saying_ , isn’t gonna happen. He’s a Career! I still can’t believe that you got the drop on him before he could turn around and kill you. But what I’m saying is, he’s not going to wake up all brand new and say ‘Oh gee, an alliance with District 11 sounds like a fantastic idea!’”

The machete’s handle is sweaty in Cassian’s grip. If he can sneak up on Arbor, he’s pretty sure Teak won’t fight back. She might run, she might not, but at least from the looks of it she doesn’t have any large weapon to worry about. Now, how to get Arbor closer to the edge of the clearing…

But before Cassian can think of a plan, the Career between the two springs up and bellows bloody murder. Helix is a hulking powerhouse of an 18-year old, and he immediately goes for Teak. Cassian uses the distraction to dash around the edge of the clearing to Arbor’s undefended back and then he leaps out of the tall grass, throwing his arms around the boy’s neck. 

Arbor stumbles, but doesn’t fall over, and while he still has the shock of surprise Cassian slashes down at the older boy’s torso with the machete, using the opportunity to kick at Arbor’s griphold on the axe. 

It works, and the axe falls from Arbor's hand. He has precious few seconds to finish him off. But Arbor’s neck is slippery with sweat, and Cassian almost slips off his back when the dark-skinned boy reaches around back, gets a grip on Cassian’s left leg, and _pulls_. 

They both end up on the ground, with Cassian getting the wind knocked out of him from the impact. His only saving grace is that when he’s able to roll himself over Arbor’s already on his knees, raising a hand to the deep gash Cassian’s machete tore into his side. Cassian had felt the blade cleave all the way to the bones of his ribcage, cutting through even as they fell to the ground. Cassian forces himself to move past the pain in his diaphragm and staggers forward, pushing at Arbor’s shoulder to turn him just enough so that he can slash his machete into his gut.

 _Don’t kill quickly_ , his father’s words come to mind. _The longer you let them bleed out, the higher your ratings. Sponsors will see that and want to see more of it. That’s when I can send you supplies._

So once Cassian has assured himself that Arbor is incapacitated he goes for Helix, who is caught up in pummeling Teak against the trunk of the tree. Dropping the machete and snatching up Arbor’s axe, he uses both hands to swing it and drive the blade straight into the Career’s back. 

Helix lets out an anguished yell as he falls over; Teak slides down the trunk of the tree, retching out blood. None of them are in any condition to fight Cassian, but he still wants to make this quick. 

But should he? Or should he prolong it for the cameras, throw in a taunt or three? Helix is moaning on the ground; he might have fought through a concussion for a last-ditch attempt to kill, but there’s no way he’s moving anywhere with that axe embedded in his spine. Arbor is bleeding out, having rolled onto his back during the fray. And Teak…

Cassian looks at her mangled face where a lot of the Career’s blows landed. When she speaks her words are slurred and blood dribbles out of her bleeding mouth. “Just… jus’ get on with it already.”

In the seconds that follow and for the rest of his life, Cassian will always hate himself for what he says next: “I can’t.”

He moves around to the opposite side of the tree’s trunk and begins to climb up the tree. The roar of blood in his ears has subsided with the slowing of adrenaline, and he feels hyperaware of the sudden stillness in the clearing. The bark scrapes under his boots as he boosts himself up the trunk, eventually edging himself out over the clearing on one of the pine’s lower branches. 

While he’s climbing Teak screams at him between gargles and gasps for breath. “Where the fuck are you going? What the _fuck_ are you doing? Just kill us already! Put us out of this misery!

“ _What are you waiting for?!_ ”

Hours pass. Cassian keeps wishing for another tribute to come, ideally another bloodthirsty Career who wouldn’t hesitate to finish off three dying tributes and add those kills to their tally; if they spot him, maybe they can kill him, too. But no one else comes. 

Teak’s screaming turns into moans and sobbing and eventually hiccups and silence as the artificial sun moves through its path in the artificial sky. A cannon eventually sounds, and before dusk two more follow. Cassian stays hidden in the tree until he remembers that even if he plans to stay in the tree for the night, he’ll have to move away from it first so that the hovercraft can pick up the bodies. So he maneuvers back down the trunk, being careful to avoid the side where Teak’s broken body lay. 

He considers Helix’s body lying a short distance away, then decides against trying to yank the axe out. It wasn’t a weapon he could confidently wield, so he instead looks for his machete and finds it near where he grappled with Arbor. Arbor has a near-empty skein of water on him, so he takes that too. Then he heads into the grass, waiting until he hears the sound of the hovercraft moving in to take away the dead tributes. Then he quietly moves back.

As he hoists himself back up onto the lowest branch of the tree, a silver parachute somehow comes to land gently on the junction of two branches an arm’s length in front of him. He unwraps it. His stomach growls. On a golden platter is a small cake, elegantly frosted and wrapped with tiny silver cutlery, and he’s reminded that in this Arena he hasn’t managed to find much to eat since before the Games.

On the cake are three words written in fancy piped icing. Reading them makes him want to cry. 

His real birthday always came during a time of distress in the Andor family; because of the time of year his father was almost guaranteed to be in the Capitol, busy with victor and mentor duties for the Games. Instead, his family would celebrate his birthday on the day of the autumnal equinox, a safe space in between the conclusion of that year’s Games and Victory Tour. 

But this year, he’s here in the Arena and his father has to arrange sponsorships for him to outlast killing other children and his mother is watching all of this happen on a nationwide broadcast. So he looks into the blank space of air before him, says “Thank you,” with his best teary-eyed smile, and begins to eat.


	6. “get it out”/no more/“stop, please”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: drugging, forced prostitution of a minor, implied noncon

Cassian was invited to his first Capitol Bacchanal the following year after being crowned victor of the 62nd Hunger Games. He is all of sixteen years old when his presence was requested, and it wasn’t as a guest.

The Bacchanalia were lavish parties—really, well-funded orgies that had all manners of debauchery present to be entertained and indulged. It was only the highest echelons of the Capitol’s wealthiest and powerful in attendance. And then there were a few that were a rung below their betters who had the money and influence to join their ranks, seeking to rub elbows with the elite and their favored playthings. Looking to prove themselves worthy of admittance to an exclusive den of depravity.

Jeron had thought he could shield his son from the very worst parts of being a victor. Looking back, Cassian isn’t sure if his father was really so trusting as to believe that the remorseless snake in Panem’s presidential office would honor his request. But on most days he chooses to believe that, because the alternative is that Jeron was turning a willful blind eye towards what was happening and even four years after his father’s death, that is a line of thinking Cassian wants to avoid.

His chauffer had just pulled up the long driveway to an enormous manor when the footman who opened his door reached inside to jab Cassian in the side of his neck with a syringe. When he wakes up he’s lying flat on his back, each arm bent to bring his wrists level to his shoulders, and with heavy gold manacles solidly cuffing him by his forearms down to the table. 

At least it looks like those cuffs are the only restraints on him, but that’s hardly a comforting thought. He still feels very much exposed. Looking up and around him there’s an artificial skylight set in the high ceiling above him casting down bright white light, and he can see that he’s no longer dressed in the outfit that his stylist had him wear. When he raises his head clear of the table the image in front of him only confirms his fear.

The room that he’s in is dark save for the skylight, but he can see that all the walls are comprised of mirrored panels. It’s made clear to him in so many angles what a defenseless, vulnerable position he’s restrained in. He’s been dressed in a gauzy white tunic, parted in the middle to reveal a sliver of his chest. His bare legs dangle off the edge of what looks to be a black marble pedestal. As whatever they drugged him to unconsciousness with wears off, the awareness of the situation begins to spike his heartrate.

And then without preamble, a set of tall double doors open and scores of revelers begin to fill the room with noise. The air that roils in with them is hot, almost muggy compared to the air-conditioned chill he woke up in, but it’s the sounds of so many voices calling over one another and boisterous shrieks of laughter that make his skin shiver with goosebumps.

 _So many people_. Cassian knows it’s pointless, but he twists his neck this way and that trying to get a scope of just how many strange people are surrounding him. It’s hard to count. There's not so many as to be suffocated by the crowd, which is good because the pedestal has him couched roughly at hip height. The party guests stay a good distance away, their faces kept in shadow as they drink and mingle and look at him. 

Just as Cassian’s beginning to wonder if he’s supposed to be here as a part of some weird tableau the doors close shut, and with them disappears the outside’s ambient lights and sound. An expectant silence falls throughout the room. Cassian has a terrible feeling about this. 

“Well, well, well. I’m sure some of you have been waiting _all night_ for this opportunity. Some of you preferred to start with other pleasures more readily supplied”—laughs from the crowd—“but you’re still here with us. Bravo. I admire that. Just like many of you admired this fine young man as he was crowned victor of our Games last year.” Interested murmurs and assents from the crowd. “Understandably, many of you wanted to see more of him. President Snow has heard your requests. After tonight, he’s welcome to hear any more for the right price. But tonight you may sample fine Cassian—and if you would like to enjoy this young man’s company for your own personal ventures, speak to the right people and it can be arranged.” 

“How old is he again?” yells out a drunken voice. Laugher precedes hushes to the caller. Cassian determinedly keeps his eyes trained on the skylight overhead, but he feels the hand that comes to rest firmly on his inner thigh. 

“If you were chosen to be here,” purrs the voice, stroking the sensitive skin there, “I'm certain you’re well aware. Now, for those looking to pay for the courtesy of stripping him: 1,200 credits.”

On and on it goes; Cassian tries to keep track of the various acts for which these people rabidly outbid each other to have the privilege of violating him, but the sheer fright of being auctioned and the growing clamor of the room has his mind blank save for the painful awareness of how defenseless he is, anticipation and terror seizing the breath in his lungs.

He’s scared. He doesn’t want this, he wants to get away, he wants to run all the way back to District 5 and believe this is nothing but a horrible nightmare to wake up from. But it’s not.

And then they _begin_. 


	7. enemy to caretaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: references to previous noncon. Hurt and comfort in this chapter :)

They use and abuse him, and afterwards Cassian is left alone. When the doors close behind the last patrons to leave the room is completely silent, save for his ragged breathing. Cassian doesn’t know how long he’s left there, with the unceasing bright light shining down upon his battered body. But his frayed nerves snap a jolt to his awareness when he feels a phantom touch on his arm.

“Easy, Cassian. It’s me.” The touch is gone, and Draven’s voice reaches him a second before his face appears above him. Cassian recoils upon recognition of the man. Is he here to use him too? Was it—a privilege for the escorts to have their own turn with the tributes-turned-victors, some twisted perk of a job done right?

Cassian can’t take it; not him, too. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to shut out the disparate pangs of his heart kicking into a panic and his spirit being crushed. “Please. No m-more.” The words take effort to pull out of an abused mouth, but it’s the only defense he has.

(But that didn’t stop any of them, did it…?)

His chest is heaving; all the bruises and aches are making themselves known anew. But Draven doesn’t touch him again. Instead he says after a pregnant silence, “Let’s get you cleaned up and out of here.”

When Cassian opens his eyes two Avoxes are by his side, each unfastening the restraints that had held him down for hours. The cuffs split apart so easily, in mocking contrast of how solid they were when he had struggled and strained against them and then cried in defeat. They leave their mark on him; his skin is rubbed red beneath, damp with sweat, and sensitive with bruises to come. When they maneuver his arms to lay them at his sides he lets out an involuntary gasp; the lack of circulation sends pins and needles shooting down to his fingertips.

Draven is standing next to a wheeled cot. The Avoxes move him carefully onto its raised bed, which is a soft comfort compared to cold, unyielding marble. They don’t comment on the blood and bodily fluids streaked across Cassian’s skin that leave stains on the bedding. Not that they could, anyway, with their tongues cut out. Perversely, Cassian is thankful that they can’t. He can’t imagine what he looks like. What little clothes he had woken up in the room with are long gone, but they cover him with a thin papery blanket. A small relief for his modesty torn to pieces.

Cassian can barely keep his eyes open as they transport him… somewhere. But the entire time he’s aware of Draven’s presence close by, murmuring commands to those in charge of his care. It’s only when he’s being maneuvered into hot water—a bath, his mind dimly supplies—that Draven speaks to him directly again. “They’re going to leave you to soak for fifteen minutes, and then you’re to be transported to the Remake Center.”

An Avox touches his shoulder gently; Cassian startles, but he’s being presented with a straw to a glass of water warmed with lemon, the warmth of which soothes his abused throat. After a few sips he croaks out, “Where’s my father?”

“At the Games Headquarters with Irga; there’s a feast at dawn. You will be brought back to your quarters after your remake session.”

“And… and you?”

The question catches them both off guard. “Me?” Draven repeats, and Cassian hesitates at the incredulity in his voice.

“Where…” Cassian swallows, tries again. “Where do you go?”

After a pause, Draven answers. “Home. But I am staying here with you.” He clears his throat. “My duties are to escort you to and from engagements outside of the Tributes’ Tower. Once that’s finished, then I’ll be getting home myself. You needn’t think of me outside of that.”

There’s a muted edge there, a barrier to remind Cassian of his place in this fucked up life. But the words are said with a gentleness that Cassian doesn’t hear often, not in the Capitol accent. It makes it easier to close his eyes and allow himself some tentative rest.


	8. "don't say goodbye"/abandoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: minor character deaths (canon and OC), gaslighting, minor references to suicide and torture

It was an accident, right? That was what they were told to say, that’s what everyone said. The Capitol news, District 5 news. It was what friends, family, and fans of his father believed. That it had been an accident, although Cassian knows the truth. But it’s hard to hold onto the truth when the truth was guarded by just the words of two people versus the world.

Now there is only one occupied house in the Victors’ Village of District 5. 

They say it was an accident; that’s what the Peacekeepers said when they interrogated him. Asked him over and over again what he knew. What he really knew. And when Cassian wouldn’t tell them, refused to, they made sure he would confess only the lie.

_It was an accident._

He’s pretty sure that they didn’t do the same with his mother, who has been more or less catatonic since she found her husband’s body. They made him parrot the lie to her, though. About the accident. 

How Jeron Andor and Irga Torres, vaunted victors and valued mentors of District 5, had both died in a tragic unforeseen accident. Never mind that their deaths seemed more than coincidental: according to official news, they had both been killed when touring a newly renovated power station. The explosion resulted in three deaths; the third casualty was someone with a grudge who was related to a tribute who had died some years ago in the Games under their mentorship. Very unfortunate and sad, but there was something to be learned from it: the supposed saboteur’s family was killed as punishment and to show that any act against victors was an act against the Capitol. A tidy story with a beginning, middle, and ending, with a lesson from the state to boot. Absolutely nothing like the truth.

But Irga’s death really was an accident, at least as much as the Capitol could stage it that way when Cassian went to her house to relay the news of his father. But Cassian and his mother knew the truth: having her killed in the same way that Jeron had killed himself would send a message. 

Because the two of them knew that Jeron’s death wasn’t an accident, it was a suicide. 

And because they knew that Lila and Cassian both knew that, they made sure that no one else could know. They did it without killing their only remaining leverage against Cassian, or Cassian himself. Ensuring Lila’s silence was easy; her grief rendered her mute and unwilling to speak. But for Cassian it was different. Extensive torture and interrogation. They made him learn to love the lie so deeply it became a part of his truth. There were days he woke up hating the person who killed his father, before the _real_ truth came flooding back to him.

Jeron Andor did not die from some freak accident at a power plant, he died trying to protect—to protect—

_He died to protect me._

President Snow didn’t like that.

Jeron Andor may have been dead but his son wasn’t. Conditioning Cassian’s response to it was only part of the postmortem punishment.

And while Jeron might have thought that killing himself would get Cassian out of Snow’s stable of victor whores and safely, solely into a mentoring position, he was dead wrong.


	9. "'take me instead"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: none (other than dramatic irony angst)

It was an easy decision to make.

Jeron looks down at his son standing next to him and Mayor Trubitt and thinks, _Two more inches and he’ll be nearly eye level with me_. Cassian was starting to hit his growth spurt; his voice was a pitch in that awkward adolescent squawk, he had more body hair growing in, and most telling of all, he _smelled_ like a teenaged boy. Before they leave her at the platform to board the tribute train to the Capitol Lila will say something to their son about it, Jeron already knows it.

He was going through the trials of puberty just as his other classmates, except for a key difference: he had just survived a fight to the death with twenty-three other children in last year’s Hunger Games. While he had been fourteen at the time, he was reaped from the fifteen-year-old boys’ pool of potential tributes because his birthday would pass during the Games; still, the Capitol’s news anchors, gossip talk shows, and even the public programming all repeated that he was fourteen years old. His age as a young victor was a hot topic in the Capitol. Jeron didn’t like to think about what it meant for Cassian.

But he knew his own role in it: Jeron had advised, aided, and watched his son kill and outlast all the other tributes. Both father and son could hardly talk about their shared trauma. But watching his son talk to the mayor’s teenage son like a peer, he can almost believe that Cassian could grow up normally.

Jeron had tried his best to deliver on that experience as long as he could, but from the day Lila told him she was pregnant he knew he’d have to couple his obligations to protect his family with his obligations to the Capitol. Everything that he has done since then—throughout Cassian’s childhood, from when he was reaped and then won his Games, and with what will now come afterward—has been to protect their family. That’s what he thinks of as he walks over to District 5’s escort.

Davits Draven inclines his head in greeting. This year he’s come to attend the reaping in a dark purple suit, and the leather gloves that went up to his elbows and its matching cravat are a dark grey. His steel blue eyes are impassive as always.

“I’m volunteering to mentor the male tribute this year,” Jeron says to him, without further explanation.

“I was told you might say that,” Draven says. His reply equally offers no further explanation.

They watch the scene before them in the hallway; the mayor has joined his son’s conversation with Cassian while the closest Peacekeeper on standby looks on. There are two more Peacekeepers stationed by the doors of the two meeting rooms being used for the tributes’ goodbyes; there is most likely at least one more inside each room. Another Peacekeeper escorts those going in and going out. And there is another Peacekeeper in the corner who is keeping an eye on him and Draven.

“What do you mean?” Jeron finally asks.

“One of my peers—several, actually—asked me if you would be permitted to mentor in Cassian’s place. So I asked the Gamemakers.”

Trepidation slips down his spine. “And?”

“They said it is customary for the most recent victor to mentor by replacing another victor, barring districts that currently have only a single victor,” Draven says. “But only customary; not mandated.”

“Did Snow have anything to say about it?”

Jeron tries to keep his expression neutral, but it’s more than likely that Draven can read his anxiousness. “If _President_ Snow did, I’m certain that the Gamemakers have already taken his input into consideration. You’ll mentor this year along with Irga, and I’ll send a message to the Games Headquarters when we board the train.”

Draven’s expression and tone didn’t shift at all during their conversation, and Jeron finds himself thankful for the man’s stoicism; his own personal relief shows with a slump of his shoulders. As if on cue Cassian slouches over to rejoin them and Jeron thinks about chiding him for his posture, but instead they watch as the two tributes—this year, a pale-skinned thirteen-year-old boy and a sixteen-year-old girl, her dark brown hair in braids—are escorted out by a Peacekeeper entourage.

Jeron thinks of Cassian’s district partner from his Games; apparently Cassian’s remembering, too. “How old is she?" he asks of the female tribute. "Nata was…”

“Nata was your age,” Jeron says quietly to his son. “You don’t have to think about mentoring this year—Irga and I will handle it.”

They’ll handle it the same as they’ve had in the previous years before Cassian. Cassian doesn’t need to know what it’s like to send children his own age to their deaths. Not while Jeron can shield him from it.


	10. blood loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: nonexplicit dubcon/canon-typical prostitution, drug mention

Jyn is bleeding badly, and she needs help.

A skirmish with the Career pack has left her with a gash in her side from thigh to armpit. No major arteries were severed and she’s not in immediate danger of bleeding out, but there are plenty of dead tributes who succumbed to an infection. Fortunately, Jyn knows a thing or three about field medicine and if Cassian can get her a first aid kit replete with styptic powder and suturing supplies, he knows she’ll be able to take care of the rest herself.

The sun’s beginning to set on the Arena, which this year is set in the ruins of a city. Jyn’s hidden herself in a crumbling building so she can apply pressure on the entry wound where the Career’s knife plunged the deepest, but she’ll have to move if she wants to get away from the trail of blood that will lead anyone to her location. Cassian has to trust that the survival skills that have kept her alive six days into the Hunger Games will keep her alive until he can get her aid.

Jyn doesn’t have any sponsors yet. No matter; he knows how to ask for favors in the language of the Capitol. It’s not the first time he’s done this, anyway.

He’s kneeling naked on a four-poster bed with his arms bound together behind his back, and there’s a heavy gold collar around his neck chained up to the beam above him. The sheets are silk beneath the bare skin of his calves; for the tenth time Cassian considers stretching his unbound legs to urge some circulation back into them. But the client requested for him to be ready in this position, and he reminds himself that for Jyn this needs to go perfectly.

Even _if_ the client is running behind. The length of the chain means that Cassian can’t sit back on his heels; he has to remain on his knees, but he hopes that once the client arrives they’ll allow the chain more slack. From what he remembers of him Dystic Bergerac wasn’t the kind of client who insisted on stress positions for the pure sadism of it; he’ll admire what his money bought him first, but then move right along to business. A middling man in bureaucracy for most of his career, it wasn’t too difficult to push the right buttons: he liked not-so-subtle flattery, and to be sweet-talked into the lie that nothing mattered most in the world but his attentions and for him to be attended to.

Eventually Dystic arrives, and as the man shrugs off his coat to leave it on the desk in the corner Cassian loosens up his posture, which jingles the chain above him, and hopes he can get himself hard again. This will go better if he doesn’t have to pop any quick to get a hard-on, but maybe it won’t matter to Dystic whether or not Cassian’s obviously enjoying this. Maybe.

“I was surprised when I saw you requested me,” the deputy director of Panem’s Commerce Bureau says as he finally joins Cassian on the bed, checking his communicator one more time before he tosses it further away on the covers. “Care to fill me in?”

“Can’t I just say it’s been a while since I’ve seen you?” Cassian says charmingly, cocking his head to the side in a way he knows will invite the right answer. 

Dystic takes the bait. “It has. I don’t think I’ve seen you since the 68th Games. So what, two years?”

Cassian lets the shadow of a smile play on his lips. “Long enough, I think. I thought I’d check up on you. I hear they have you working long hours.” He shifts himself then; rolling his shoulders back and allowing his legs to splay open a little further on the silken covers. Doesn’t hurt to remind a client what they’re here for, especially when they’re making him run _late_.

And gods, Dystic is so easy to predict; he traces the movement with a look that doesn’t hide his lust. Spurred on, he unbuttons the first few buttons of his pressed shirt and removes his belt; he doesn’t remove his slacks or shoes before pulling out his cock. “It’s been busy; I had to work overtime. Not that it matters for my salary. But it’s really not so…” He trails off as he watches how Cassian chooses then to strain against his collar, the gold chain pulling taut with the motion. “…it’s not so bad when I know I can get something like this waiting for me at the end of a long day. You know…?”

The hunger in his eyes tells Cassian all he needs to know about this encounter. He wants Cassian to suck him off all vigorous and needy, like some eager supplicant on his knees. Make him feel like the big man when he blows his load in his mouth, let him watch as Cassian makes a show of swallowing his cum, smacking his lips as if he could ask for more. Men like Dystic are simple with their needs; admins playing lackey to a bigger and more important boss, they liked to feel superior wherever they can. Cassian can work with that.

It wasn’t the worst client he could have. As the Games wear on the cost of sending aid will only rise, and it already will especially if and when word gets around that Cassian Andor is working hard in the interest of his female tribute. But he’ll do it anyway— _has_ to do it, anyway—if it means keeping Jyn alive.


	11. defiance/struggling/crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: nonexplicit underage canon-typical prostitution, drug use, minor character death mention (canon and OC), heavy angst

Back in the Capitol, Cassian is just a few days shy of his sixteenth birthday when he receives a summons to President Snow’s office.

The summons comes on the morning of the commencement of the 63rd Hunger Games. Cassian wakes up alone; Jeron didn’t wake him before leaving for the Games Headquarters with Irga, and the tributes have long since departed for the Arena with their prep teams for final preparations. As Cassian eats his breakfast with only the silent Avoxes for company, he lets himself feel the relief he tried to hide back in District 5 when his father informed him that he wouldn’t be responsible for mentoring a thirteen-year-old boy to his certain death. But if Cassian’s not participating in the Games as a mentor, then is he supposed to stay here?

The answer comes with a knock at the door. It’s an Avox, holding out a powder blue envelope. The flap is sealed with wax, and inside is a single card. On the back, in neat type: _Presidential Manor. 2 o’clock._

Jeron did not say specifically that he was expecting Cassian to stay on the District 5 floor for the duration of the Games, but he did say something important to him: _If President Snow requests your presence, go. But you_ must _tell me everything that he says. Understand? Say that you do._

Cassian says that he does, but he doesn’t. How could he? Eventually he will, but that comes later.

-

Cassian is seventeen when he receives the first calling card.

Last year, Snow had been judicious in managing the interest in Cassian; after the Bacchanal, Snow had sent him to only two patrons. One of them had been his biggest sponsor in the Games, who coolly informed him _I was already owed your time, and I do my collecting with interest,_ while the other recounted with lurid zeal how many others they had to outbid for the only other claim to Cassian’s premier year. They gushed about it as a trio of Avoxes worked to tie Cassian up in thick red ropes, binding his arms and legs; the ropes crisscrossed over his skin in biting patterns that left their marks after the session was over, at least until he was brought to the Remake Center and then it was like nothing even happened at all.

He didn’t dare tell his father. Snow had made it clear what he was expecting of Cassian: inconspicuous and unhesitating obedience. He had made that very, very clear.

On the card is a name, a place, a time. Cassian swallows down the feeling that this will hardly be the last.

-

Cassian turns eighteen. District 5’s tributes this year are a fourteen-year-old boy and his fifteen-year-old sister. This year he wanted to mentor, in the same vein that a trapped animal will jump to gnawing off its own leg if it means a chance to escape.

But Jeron doesn’t let him. Why would he, when Cassian can’t tell him the truth? Snow has him saying that he’s assisting with Capitol programming for the Games; a kind of internship, he’s to say to his father. Internships aren’t a thing in the districts, not where the highest education level tends to be for getting to journeyman from apprenticeship, and so Jeron takes the news with cautious pride. It isn’t clear if Jeron’s noticed that Cassian is almost never on the District 5 floor when he and Irga take breaks from mentoring.

The brother and sister are a favored duo from the start, in large part because of the astronomical odds of their reaping. But it certainly helps that they’re spunky and resourceful; Jeron and Irga have an easy time securing sponsors. They enthrall the audience and make the 65th Hunger Games a spectacle with their carefully planned partnered kills. 

The Games are a never-ending source of entertainment and Capitol citizens have an insatiable obsession with it. Cassian watches the Games progress from many different broadcast displays—occasionally the same one twice or more—because the Games serve as an ever-present backdrop in the bedrooms and parties he’s whored out to. That’s how he learns that the drama and action alone are captivating enough to the Capitol audience at large, but it’s having the godlike opportunity to change the tides at a single whim that appeals to the Capitol's powerful elite.

Cassian is there when the fates of the brother and sister from District 5 are decided. Cygnus Vondel, a business magnate with long-standing ties to Panem’s public sector, has been rooting for the male tribute of District 4 _hard_. Cassian happens to be at the man’s manor, working as part of the entertainment bought for Cygnus and his sycophantic passel of underlings when he hears the man crow loudly.

“See that!” he yells over from the bed where two naked women have been attending to him. “D’you know what the Gamemakers said when I requested this gift be sent? _That it’s the single most expensive gift ever given by a sponsor_. My dear Finnick’s going to win—absolutely no doubt about it—you all can thank me later at next year’s Bacchanal!”

Cassian watches as the fourteen-year-old boy hefts the trident, testing its weight in his hands. He might have the appearance of a sun-kissed cherub with his golden hair and sea green eyes but Finnick Odair hails from a Career district nonetheless, and the gleaming trident grants him a new showy offensive.

Finnick starts racking up a tally of kills almost immediately. Cassian can hardly stand to watch when the boy gets the drop on the District 5 siblings, trapping both with a weighted net and then finishing them off with the trident. He’s almost thankful for the slap to his face, the nameless voice that hisses to him “ _Get back to work_ ,” so he does.

-

Cassian turns nineteen. The Capitol, officially, is in uproarious celebration.

Nineteen is the age of majority in Panem; in the Capitol, the occasion is christened with a debutante event called the Decem. There’s whispers and then demands to throw a fête in Cassian’s honor, and then it’s all downhill from there.

Before he turned nineteen Cassian was an off-the-books secret, available only to those Snow allowed enough privilege to know. Now, Snow is going to have Cassian go public with a new persona. It’s been all laid out for him: Jeron Andor’s son, known to be somewhat shy in the public eye, will be usurped by a playboy ready to romp in the Capitol.

When Cassian informs his father he will be attending the Decem event Peridot Starlight is hosting for him, they get into a huge fight. It’s the last major fight they have, with Cassian shouting out his frustrations and anger about his impotence in the face of the Capitol—all guised as a nineteen-year-old not-quite adult yelling about how he’s old enough, he should get to do what he wants, and if he wants to go party in the Capitol during the Games Jeron can’t stop him. He puts every piece he hates of himself into the lie because he’s been forced to lie to his father about what Snow has had him do for the past three years, he has to keep lying to protect their family; _what part of that can’t you understand, Papa?_

Afterwards he shuts himself in his quarters and hides in the shower until he’s dragged out by his prep team to prepare him to attend the tribute interviews with Caesar Flickerman, the last evening event before the 66th Hunger Games begin. He’s too tense to notice the way Jeron looks over at him, his concerned whispers to Irga during the interviews. After the program is over and they head back to the District 5 floor, there is an Avox waiting for him with a powder blue envelope.

“Where are you going?” Jeron asks.

“Out,” Cassian replies, and perversely he’s thankful that in a way he doesn’t have to lie to his father anymore about what he’s doing. Even if it’s just by swallowing up that lie with an even nastier and all-consuming lie.

-

The 66th Hunger Games last for a month; the time until the Closing Ceremony is almost another two weeks. After that Snow informs him he has a roster of clients to fill out another three weeks, and so Cassian stays for four.

It’s easier this way. He goes from arm to arm, bed to bed, party to party, in an endless blur of raucous laughter and flirty touches and sex, sex, sex. He’s introduced to drugs that will make him last longer, make him unravel easier, prolong the blur in his head that keeps him from thinking about how his father and Irga have already gone home with two more dead tributes and how he’s still here in the Capitol because he hates the idea of having to come home and continuing to lie to everyone and his mother, whom Jeron has undoubtedly told about what Cassian is doing in the Capitol now that he's nineteen.

When Cassian finally comes home he feels like a completely different person; he can hardly bear looking at his mother in the eye. But his father…

It’s been a week since he’s arrived back from the Capitol, and Cassian has been holed up in his room ever since. He’s absentmindedly stroking the hair growing back on his arms when there’s a knock on his door; it’s his father.

Jeron enters his room at first gingerly, before crossing it in three strides to hug his son. Cassian is startled, but being in his father’s arms like this, the hug feels so familiarly comforting; it has him feeling almost childlike, in stark contrast to the kinds of touches he’s had to endure for the past several weeks. It’s almost disquieting, how quickly it takes him back to a time from before he was a victor, before he existed more for entertainment than as a child, before he had been forced to grow up too quickly by Capitolites too eager to consume him. His father hugs him and tells him in no uncertain terms that he loves him no matter what and in spite of everything Cassian has ever done. And _I want you to remember, mijo, everything I do, I do it to protect you. You and Mama._

The words melt through the numbness in Cassian’s heart to warm a part of him that has grown cold. He lets himself be held, holds on tight to his father, and wishes he would never have to let go.

-

The next day, he finds Jeron dead in the study. When Cassian goes to her house to bring the news he finds Irga dead in her study, too. The day after that he’s taken back to the Capitol, where he’s sunk back into a nightmare he hasn’t been able to wake back up from.


	12. broken trust

“Pleasantries aside, how have you been doing, Cassian? I have _several_ sources keen to tell me about how involved you’ve been in this year’s Games.” Caesar Flickerman’s pale green eyebrows rise with the implicit question; as always, they match the same shade of his hair and lips.

Cassian gives him a half-smile. “I hope your sources aren’t telling you everything, Caesar. Some of those things are better left to the imagination… but yes, it’s true.” He reclines back against the plush sofa while the audience ripples with laughter, then crosses an ankle over a knee as he drapes an arm atop the backrest. “I do my best by my tributes—but I’ll admit it, I’ve been particularly motivated for these Games.”

“This is your fourth year of mentorship—solo mentorship—so far. What makes this year’s Hunger Games different for you?”

Caesar didn’t intend to imply this, but it’s true that each year is more or less the same: twenty-four children are collected from the districts, trussed up with the extravagances of the Capitol, and then set loose to kill each other in a fight to the death for their audience’s entertainment. Cassian knows that. He also knows that what he’s about to speak into existence is exactly the kind of unexpected, audacious untruth the Capitol will gobble right up. He’s going to do what he does best: feed lies into the Capitol’s entertainment machine while trying to keep from being swallowed up by it himself. It’s something he was born into, what he struggles to live under, what he will have to condemn Jyn to in order to save her.

So instead of answering Caesar right away Cassian makes a show of looking around at the audience, bites his bottom lip nervously. Caesar places a hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “It’s okay, Cassian. Surely it isn’t anything too surprising?”

“Well… _She_ is what’s different. My—er, the female tribute. Jyn Erso.” Whispers surge all around them in the audience. After Peridot Starlight’s aired exclusive footage of Jyn and Cassian on Day 0, other talk shows scrambled to pick up the beat; by now, it’s been a strong undercurrent in this year’s Games coverage, and now the victor himself has confirmed it. Cassian Andor, the Capitol’s tragic golden boy, has had his head turned— _and by his own tribute, what misfortune!_ He nearly tricks himself with the amount of yearning that slips into his voice, which rings out clear amidst the audience’s palpable excitement. “I want to bring her home.”

“Oh? I think I speak for most of us when I say that, so I’ll say it again: _Oh?_ ” Caesar says with a sly wink as the audience cheers. “Tell us the love story.”

“I fell for her a week ago,” Cassian confesses. “After the reaping, before we even got to the Capitol. And our time together ended too soon; I didn’t want that week to end. Remember the amazing outfits Kay created for her? He asked for my input and that was when I told him about the first thing I ever noticed about her. ‘She has stardust in her eyes.’” The audience murmurs excitedly, and Cassian allows himself to briefly imagine what image of Jyn they’ll edit in for the broadcast. “Before she left, before I let her go…. we made a promise to each other. That I would do everything I can to bring her home.”

There; everyone in the audience is now beside themselves with the potentials of a taboo romance. Mentor-tribute relations were not unheard of but they never lasted longer than the week leading up to the Hunger Games, for obvious reasons. In the past some tributes even used it as a tactic, trying to ensure at least a single stake in their survival. But the entire practice was kept in the dark. Not Cassian’s stunt: by encircling Jyn with his own notoriety, the two of them and their supposed romance will become the talk of the Capitol. There was no way Snow could possibly kill him over this.

When Cassian gets back to District 5's floor alone an Avox is waiting for him with a powder blue envelope. He holds his breath as he breaks the seal and opens it—maybe there was some way Snow could twist this back on him, after all—but on the card is the usual three lines; a name, a place, a time.

He sits down at the large table just past the foyer, but within view of it; Draven stayed back at Headquarters to field the expected flood of sponsorship calls, but hopefully he’ll return to the Tower soon so they can discuss and re-strategize before Kay and the prep team come to sort him out for this evening’s client.

Will he have to lie to Draven? The thought briefly crosses his mind. Yes, it would best to get on like he has no allies in this. Like in the Arena. He’ll have to live out the lie thoroughly, if he’s to fool the man who’s been in his life longer than his own father. But that’s no matter. 

Will he have to lie to Jyn? He doesn’t want to think about that yet. Right now she’s in the Arena; she’ll have no idea of what he’s done until after she’s won. And if helping her win means falling in love with Jyn Erso for those in the Capitol to see a tribute they want to save, he’ll do it.


	13. alternate prompt: carry/support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: aftermath of drug use, brief sex pollen nsfw, hurt/comfort

His chronometer reads 04:04 when Cassian stumbles out of the party, an Avox nervously helping him down the stairs to where Davits Draven has been waiting for his charge.

“Don’ worry Drav… I’m - I’m, I’m _good_.” Cassian slurs out the word as he throws both arms around his escort’s waist. “Mm. You smell nice.”

They have to stop for a while because Cassian wants to nuzzle his face into Draven’s cravat, rubbing his cheeks this way and that. So Draven barks out an order for the waiting Avox to assist, and then the three of them are heading down the driveway towards the waiting car.

“How long ago did he last dose?” Draven asks the Avox, who holds up four fingers in reply. Four hours. He nudges Cassian, who’s having a hard time focusing his gaze on him. “What did you take?”

“I don’ know.” Draven gets into the backseat first and leaves it to the Avox to maneuver a loose-limbed Cassian into a seated position. “It was… there was a lot. Lots of things going on.”

As the car pulls away into late night traffic on the high street, Draven turns on the backseat light to survey the damage. Cassian’s head is lolling onto the headrest, and while he did get his suit jacket back on the satin yellow dress shirt he was wearing is missing—not that it really mattered. But his hands keep roving over the planes of his bare stomach, reaching up occasionally to rub at a nipple. His face is flushed red, with his cheeks and neck and collarbones bearing the smeared, colorful marks of a dozen admirers.

“Mm. Sorry,” he says breathlessly when he sees Draven staring. “There was—somebody gave me quick. Made me horny. I took it twice. And there was this one guest who had, who had this lotion—he rubbed it all over my chest—”

Cassian arches his back with a gasp as he tweaks his own nipple, his body shivering in orgasmic delight. With his mouth parted just so and his eyes squeezed shut he looks the very picture of eroticism, maybe for an invisible audience that only he is aware of. When he finishes, Cassian runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, breathing heavily. Then he takes a moment to fumble with buttoning up his jacket—it’s something he does, out of consideration for Draven—and then starts to smooth his hands over his leggings, stained with drink and gods know what else, over and over again. Good. That means he’s coming back to himself, at least a little bit.

“Can you tell me where we are?” he asks.

“I-I think.” Cassian’s eyes dart around the inside of the car, pupils still blown with the drug’s influence. “We… we just left Tiberius Wolfsbane’s party. You dropped me off at 9pm. Said you’d pick me up at 4. Is it 4 o’clock?”

Draven nods. “Just past 4. Go on.”

“There was… an Avox who helped you carry me.”

“Yes.”

“You’re driving me to the Remake Center.”

“Yes.”

“They’ll… they’ll patch me up.”

“Yes.”

“And then you’ll bring me back to my quarters.”

“Correct.”

Though his chest is still heaving, Cassian’s breath is coming out slower, which is a good sign. His hands slow their repetitive motions; Cassian balls them into fists in his lap, and Draven can see his nails biting into the flesh there. Helping to ground himself through the comedown. Good.

Draven watches him until Cassian’s eyes slip closed and his hands slacken in his lap. If his last dose was at the time the Avox indicated, then he’ll be feeling cold soon. Draven shrugs out of his own jacket to drape it over his still form.

The Remake Center's street entrance is behind enough physical barriers and private security to keep any ambitious paparazzi out, and Draven is once again thankful for the privacy as he waits outside the car for Cassian to be processed. The sky overhead is just beginning to tint deep purple to lighter pinks when Cassian comes out an hour later. Gone is the sweat and grime; they’ve washed his hair and erased any marks and bruising upon his body. As he stands there, wearing the thin slip given to patients after a remake session, he looks like he could have just been awoken from a dream.

The sleepyhead look is from the sedative they use for the remake process; it’s easier, and safer, for escorts to handle their charges back to the Tower before it wears off. Draven has heard of some escorts having feisty tributes or victors who fight through those last dregs of sedation, but Cassian has never given him that problem. He goes where he’s requested, does as he’s told.

As does Draven. Wherever Cassian is needed to go, he’s with the young victor to fulfill his duties as an escort; no less, no more.


	14. branding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: references to prostitution, brief reference to self harm

_A capite ad calcem_ was the phrase inscribed as the Remake Center’s motto. It came from an old language, older than English, or so Cassian’s been told. Fittingly enough, it meant _From head to toe_ ; within its glittering glass façade, anyone could be remade in the Capitol’s image. For its citizens, that meant youth regeneration and body sculpting and face lifts and skin dyes and whatever the latest fashion trend was. In the Capitol, a body was meant to be decorated, celebrated, and admired—unless it was a tribute’s. For them, the Remake Center was only the first stop in remaking them for the Capitol’s ravenous consumption.

The first time Cassian went through remake, he hadn’t noticed before how much each freckle and scar comprised his individuality. Not until they were all vanished as part of his preparation for the Games. He didn’t have time to contemplate how he felt about it until after he had won, when after his time in the Remake Center all the injuries he had sustained during the Games just… disappeared. The technology in the Capital worked like magic, leaving his skin polished smooth, hairless, unblemished. That first morning when he woke up in a real bed and he looked at his pristine hands, he could almost believe the Hunger Games was only a nightmare. But only the Capitol could make him suffer so, while leaving no scars.

It’s not like he had any strong attachments to those old marks. It was just that he liked knowing what stories they told: there was a scar on his lower back from falling out of a tree. There was a birth mark on his chest, and another on his foot. A mole here and there. Remake had gotten rid of all of them.

Cassian isn’t sure what story his skin tells now—with each visit to the Remake Center, his skin is wiped anew. It didn’t matter what was done to him last night or whatever he was forced to do. It didn’t matter what he did to it personally, either; if the sun bestowed on him tan lines and freckles or if he cut it himself. With each skin wipe it was all the same: his skin changed back to an flawless, unsullied, immaculate state—devoid of any story to tell.

Maybe it does have one story, here in the Capitol: a blank page for anyone to scrawl their desires in. A canvas for anyone’s lusts.


	15. alternate prompt: accidents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: child death mention

When you are a victor, there are no such things as coincidences, only unspoken warnings. No accidents, only swift punishments.

Jeron had told Lila this once before, after what happened to their first daughter, Esperanza. Now, Lila is repeating his words back to him once more because Cassian has been reaped. 

She didn’t even have time to curse Jeron’s name in the hour after the reaping as District 5’s tributes said their goodbyes. He didn’t have an answer for her—what mistake must have been made for the Capitol to collect their son as penalty. Because that would be the only reason they had to take him, right? It really could have been anything, but he can’t bring himself to say out loud that the Capitol has had a claim on their son since birth.

Even though Jeron promised to get him home…

She did not want another accident again. She knows it would break her.


	16. forced to beg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: nsfw, creepy whumper, aftermath of noncon

“Do you remember when you begged me to buy you?”

Cassian’s lying on his side, naked, curled in on himself, facing away from his client. The session was intense; it’s only now, released from his restraints, that he’s allowed to catch his breath in short gasps. Sophmora is somewhere behind him; he can barely hear her words over the pounding of his heart.

He feels more than hears her heeled boots step closer to him; she slides a pointed toe under his side and his too-hot skin sticks to the leather. “Perhaps you don’t. But it was during your Decem year, and I remember our session together all too well. It’s a pity the host didn’t allow recordings. What a waste." She tuts. 

“But I do remember you _begging_.” Suddenly Sophmora’s low voice is down by his ear, and Cassian can’t hide how his body violently startles. He doesn’t remember what she’s talking about, but then again he’s long since buried those memories where he never has to think about them. Except for when the Hunger Games forcibly exhumes them.

Sophmora’s nails, pointed as stilettos, slowly drum their way up his arm to take hold of his shoulder as she leans in closer. “You begged me to buy you. I didn’t expect you to have heard my joke. But you did, and you begged me to buy you as my pet. Full time. Were you really so desperate to get out of Snow's little scheme for you? I loved the idea, but it’s not at all how this works.”

Cassian’s heart is beginning to slow its frantic rhythm, but Sophmora’s caresses are starting to raise goosebumps on his over-sensitized skin again. When she speaks again, he can hear the pitying smile in her voice. “Poor Cassian. You lost your father and Snow let you grieve. But it took one special female tribute for you to get back in the stable, did it? Well.” Her lips are at the back of his neck, wet and covetous. “District 5 has my sponsorship. It’ll be entertaining to see what happens to the girl after this all ends. And Cassian?”

Her hand moves down lower to where his spent cock is; he can feel the drag of her nails on his thighs, and the noise he lets out is somewhere between a whimper and a groan. Her voice is a dark whisper foreboding the rest of the night. “Welcome back to the Games.”


	17. blackmail

Some days Cassian thinks about all the tributes who have died in the Hunger Games—hundreds, by now—and wonders if they’re the lucky ones. The Games ended for a tribute when they lay dead in the Arena. But for victors, the Games never end.

Once you were crowned victor, you were effectively a name in President Snow’s black book. The book wasn’t for his personal use, no—when sponsorship needed to be courted and rewarded, it was used as a special-order list to keep the Games interesting for the wealthy and influential Capitol elite.

And the black book wasn’t really a book. Each name in it was a file folder, a detailed directory of a victor’s life. An ongoing compilation of names and pictures of family and friends, loved ones and associates, anyone of interest, anyone’s life to be used as a threat. Peacekeepers weren’t stationed just to keep the districts in line; they were the President’s eyes and ears and executioners, if need be.

Cassian’s seen his file. Snow showed it to him twice: once, when he was seventeen and needed to be shown that ‘no’ wasn’t a choice and again, at the end of a demonstration of how his nineteenth birthday was to be celebrated in the Capitol, and how he was to conduct himself thereon after. He remembers staring at the pictures of his mother and father, of distant family relatives and classmates from school. Each face blissfully unaware of being watched; each face was a reminder of how little control he was to have over his life after he won it back.

Back in District 5, Cassian is the sole occupant of Victor’s Village. His mother moved away to live with her sister after his father died; that doesn’t strike her name from his file, but he’ll take false comfort in believing that being away from him will keep her safe. Outside of that, he keeps his circle of interactions small; while he can’t do anything about the roster of names already in it, he can try to avoid making any stand out, or adding any new ones. Without a doubt Jyn will be a name in his file if she wins. He’s accepted that already. But he doesn’t want to think about the file they’ll compile on her after the name _Jyn Erso_ has its own line in Snow’s black book. He can’t think about that now, not when he still has to get her out. He can’t. He won’t.


	18. alternate prompt: falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: graphic descriptions of minor character death (OC)

The 62nd Hunger Games is down to Cassian and the female Career from District 2, Alabaster Tate; it’s just after high noon and the cannon has sounded off the death of the third place finisher, so of course they’ll force a fight now. A thundering rainstorm strikes a fire with lightning and sets the grasslands ablaze and Cassian can tell the Gamemakers want to end it soon. What fun would a final showdown be if it happened tomorrow with both combatants well-rested and prepared when hot-blooded desperation would certainly put on a more dramatic show?

Cassian’s last stand is scrambling up a towering pine with the Career on his heels; his heart jumps into his throat when Alabaster fires off two bolts from her crossbow, but both of them miss—and yet he doesn’t have a second to breathe before he sees her coming up after him.

He needs to think fast. _Your mind will be the sharpest weapon you have in the Arena._ His father had told him that, had insisted so when he sent him food for supplies. It was an unusual strategy, one that would have probably been prohibited by the Gamemakers if Jeron hadn’t played up the touching story of a father’s love, providing for his son in spite of the circumstances. First was a birthday cake; the Capitol had _loved_ the sentimentality of that. The second became a trendy dish every Capitol restaurant would have on their menu overnight: chilaquiles. The third was sticky buns. Cassian couldn’t even fathom how much it cost to send each item with each day that the Games dragged on. But he couldn’t deny that in an arena that was designed to make hunting and foraging difficult, it was easier to focus on survival when he didn’t have to keep his mind off the gnawing pit of his stomach. It was easier to wait for the other tributes to make mistakes, for him to watch for the right opportunity, to think his way through the panic of fight or flight.

For now, it’s flight. The rain has stopped, probably so that the cameras can get clear shots of the final fight to the death, but Cassian still has to blink away drops that shake down from the branches overhead. Ignoring the screaming blisters on his hands slipping over the wet bark, he keeps on climbing and climbing. The cover of pine needles gradually thin until the artificial sky peers down at him. If not for Alabaster trying to kill him, it would have been a peaceful moment to gaze up at the clear blue above him. Still, he allows himself a moment to look up at that last sight, wills his heart to slow its frenetic pace by a fraction, and then he decides it’s time to fight.

Alabaster never saw it coming. Neither did the Gamemakers or any other viewers. Looking back down at his last foe, Cassian waits until he has a clear drop to her before jumping down from his perch, the only warning of his incoming the sounds of branches suddenly snapping beneath his fall.

She screams when Cassian wraps his arms and legs around her to drag her down with him. Their combined weight only increases their terminal velocity as they crash through more and more branches until the ground rushes up to meet them.

With the advantage of surprise, Cassian was able to maneuver Alabaster to take the brunt of the fall. There’s a sickening sound her body makes even before the collapse of his weight atop her, and the impact sends such a shock throughout his body that his vision whites out.

It was a gamble. Falling from such a height was guaranteed to kill one or both of them. He just hoped that she’d succumb to her injuries before him, and the last thought he has before he hears the sound of a cannon is about how blue that artificial sky seemed above him, how endless the plummet felt.


	19. survivor's guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: canon-typical descriptions of violence, mentions of previous minor character death

The Arena—his Arena—is a recurring dream for him, but as the idyllic pasture it might have been if it wasn’t an artificially constructed death trap for the Games. In the dream Cassian sits at the base of one of those towering pines, watching the thickets of grass sway gently in the breeze, the air warmed by the afternoon sunshine.

In the dream, he’s never alone for long. Sometimes Nata comes out of the grass to join him. She sits next to him and doesn’t say a word but the fact that she remains preternaturally young at fourteen while his own body has grown with the near-decade he’s lived past her death says everything that her silence doesn’t.

Sometimes he can hear Teak from the other side of the trunk, the way her screams sounded gurgled and bloody until she died. Arbor and Helix are around him just out of sight, lying dead in the dirt. The air stinks hot and acrid with the smell of their blood.

Sometimes he hears a crunch, like the smack of a wet sack hitting the ground. But then he sees Alabaster standing just out the corner of his eye, and he has hardly any time to face her before a bolt from her crossbow pierces his body and even though he’s sitting on the ground it’s like he’s falling, falling—

Irga comes to him, in some dreams. She was older than his father, watched him grow up more closely than a lot of their family. His mind does not let him forget that he was the one to find her body. But in the dream, Irga sits down next to him and he’s a child again; he closes his eyes to the feel of her hand stroking his hair, guiding him back to a dreamless sleep.

When it’s Jeron who comes he is fourteen again, sometimes sixteen and other times nineteen but never past that; he can’t imagine being with his father the way he is today after his father has been dead for four years. In the dream the only thing his father says is the last thing Cassian remembers Jeron saying to him, although in his head the words ring hollow and bitter. Would his father still love him no matter what with everything he has done since Jeron died, let alone before? Did he really die to protect his son—leaving him alone in the world he brought him into?

During the Games he dreams of her once in that damned arena. Jyn. When he bolts awake he immediately checks on the datapad every mentor has for their tributes and is reassured by the steady blink of her heartbeat tracker. Wherever she is, she’s still alive.

But when he closes his eyes and settles back into a restless sleep he sees her again, in the arena of his Games. But this time it’s as enemies—he chokes on his own blood when he sees her knife in his stomach and when she finishes him off with a blow to the head he’s almost thankful to wake up even if it means he won’t get any more sleep for the rest of the night.


	20. alternate prompt: memory loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: gaslighting, brainwashing, torture, suicide mention. a follow-up piece to day 8

Jeron wasn’t supposed to find out. That was the terms of their agreement.

_How did he find out?_

_I don’t know_ , Cassian says. He says it again and again, cries it out when he’s struck and screams it when they electrocute him. His words never change no matter how much they torture him. But they don’t like that answer; they tell him a new one.

_He found out because you betrayed the terms of your agreement with Snow._

_No, I didn’t—_

_Yes, you **did**._

They hurt him with that lie until it becomes his truth, until he knows it’s his fault that Jeron Andor is dead and his screaming dries up into sobs.

_Your own father died because of you._

_Yes,_ he says hoarsely _. Yes he did._

Then they ask a question that stops his breath. _Do you remember when you learned of how he died?_

The constant flood of pain he’s drowning in stills for a second, a second in which Cassian gains sudden awareness of his surroundings: he’s on his knees, his arms wrenched behind him and tied together at wrists and elbows, the cold concrete below him is damp with sweat and blood; his hair hangs dirty and lank in his face because he’s been down here for weeks and it’s all because—it’s all because—

Mama found him dead in the study.

 _No she didn’t,_ they say. _Jeron Andor and Irga Torres were killed in an explosion at the power station and a seditioner was blamed for it._

 _No!_ The panic of being unbelieved punches up in his chest _. That’s not true, she didn’t—Papa—_

_Yes, they **did**._

It hurts. It hurts, it hurts it hurts it hurts so _bad_ , they hurt him until he knows he deserves it. This is his punishment for disobeying Snow. Three people dead. Irga. His own father. Why couldn’t he just listen?

_What were you doing before going back to District 5?_

_I… I was in the Capitol. F-following Snow’s orders._

_Were you?_

_Yes._

_Then how did your father find out?_

_I… broke my agreement with Snow. I told him._

_Yes, you did._

_Yes, I did._

_Yes, **you** **did**._

-

Cassian was kept in the Capitol for a month after Jeron and Irga were killed in the accident that he now knows he really caused. He had to mourn his father in front of dozens of cameras and for dozens of interviews, as a sympathetic mouthpiece against anybody in the districts plotting against the Capitol or its corollary interests. But Cassian knew the truth. Snow made sure he knew he deserved his punishment.

When Cassian sees his mother again he wants to tell her the truth. _It was me, I did it, I’m the reason why Papa’s dead_. But they told him what to say, so he repeats the words seared into his throat: _Jeron Andor and Irga Torres were killed in an explosion at the power station and a seditioner was blamed for it._

Lila claps her hands over her mouth, her eyes frozen wide. _That’s not true._

By now, the words are a familiar weight in his chest, on his tongue. _Yes it is._

Her expression shutters and she all but flees the room. He doesn’t know that’s the last time he will see her; he has to arrange for her things to be sent to her sister’s house, his aunt’s. For himself, Cassian decides to move into the house in Victor’s Village that he won four years before; it might as well have been a lifetime ago to him. He tells himself it’s because his father is gone and his mother is gone and he needs a new start in his own space. But it’s really because he can’t shake the awful feeling that something happened in what was once their home.

-

Each house in Victors’ Village is nearly identical to the others except for room locations on floor plans. There’s always a foyer, sitting room, kitchen and pantry, dining room, first floor bathroom, a staircase leading up to four bedrooms and their en suite bathrooms, a sun room, balcony, and study.

There’s a small notecard on the table in the entryway that’s a record of the last time the house was cleaned; the most recent date reads a month ago, but there’s hardly any dust. Cassian will use not even a quarter of the rooms in his new house, but he decides to familiarize himself with the space anyway.

After wandering around the first floor he wanders to the second and peeks behind each door to pick which was to be his bedroom. He eventually selects the one nearest to the study. But it’s not until another week or so that he actually goes into the study; he’s not sure why but out of all the rooms in his house, the thought of going into this one fills him with dread. Pushing away the foreboding unease, he enters.

Pulls out the chair.

Sits at his desk.

Opens the sliding hutch.

And finds his father’s suicide note.


	21. infection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: canon-typical descriptions of violence, drug abuse, forced prostitution

This time, Jyn’s wound really does get infected.

The 70th Hunger Games has gone on for just over two weeks now and things are getting expensive. Two days ago Cassian had sent her a pair of truncheons that had already cost a ridiculous amount of money, but he considered himself fortunate that it took just one night with the right patron to raise the rest of the funds needed to get the right offensive weapon into Jyn’s hands.

It pays off. Using the truncheons combined with the element of surprise, Jyn takes on three of the Career pack in a gutsy move the Games commentators go crazy over; she manages to crack one’s skull open, she concusses another, and with a one-two hit shatters the knee and breaks the shoulder and collarbones of the last. But she wasn’t expecting the fourth remaining Career to have been lying in wait as she incapacitated his allies; his blade must have been tipped with some kind of contaminant, because the relative scratch he managed to get on Jyn has dropped her health into a critical state.

Whatever it was it’s slowly paralyzing her, spreading from the entry point of the wound. Her status readouts don’t look good at all; she won’t make it to tomorrow’s feast, assuming no one finds her and kills her during the night first. And she's in no shape to defend herself—Jyn's left arm is immobile, and she’s already hobbling with a stiffening left leg.

Cassian checks with the Casualty Advisory to confirm the readouts and calls the Sponsorship Office to confirm the required funds before sweeping out of Games Headquarters, datapad in hand. Jyn’s heartbeat tracker shows a steady pulse, and he watches it as he’s driven back to the Tower to Kay and his prep team.

He’ll have his only chance to save her tonight.

-

The event Cassian is booked to attend tonight is the Jewel Ball, hosted by Adolphia Jacquard and one of the most-raved about, high-profile galas to take place during the Games. The media blackout created a sense of exclusivity and mystique, Adolphia’s team always put together an extravagant and memorable event, and the mandatory attendance for all mentors created a crucial opportunity to court sponsorship. By this point in the Games, prices have just begun their exponential jump towards the endgame. Even a bottle of water cost thousands of credits. What more for a specialized antidote?

The crystalline clock tower strikes 9 o’clock, and so far Cassian’s been striking out. Many of the guests he’s talked to ultimately waved him off, wanting to be attended to later in the night. But Cassian doesn’t have that kind of time, because _Jyn_ doesn’t have that kind of time.

His saving grace comes in the form of Laertes Crake, who is the senior managing director of Enigma Industrials. He’s an older man, the pouchy belly a testament to his true figure and age, but typical of a Capitolite he doesn’t have a wrinkle on his face nor any grey hair. Cassian didn’t even need to approach him; Laertes comes to him while he’s gazing up at the multi-colored bubbling champagne fountain, trying to wrestle down the rising panic that he won’t be able to help Jyn in time after all. But one moment he’s alone and in the next Laertes is there at his side, gently cupping his elbow.

“Restless tonight, aren’t you?” Laertes murmurs. Having long quelled the instinctive urge to lash out when he’s startled like that, Cassian instead turns to him with a half-smile, the kind he uses when he hasn’t had the time to gauge intentions.

“There’s many people here with many different reasons. Me? I’m here to enjoy some company.” He plucks two champagne flutes from the glittering assemblage and hands one to Laertes, never breaking eye contact as he takes a sip.

Laertes doesn’t take the proffered drink. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? Word’s on the wind that your girl needs something. Something that will have to come from a patron with deep pockets. Am I wrong?”

Cassian shakes his head no, knowing when to be silent. He doesn’t acknowledge the small flutter his heart does at _your girl_ , either. Laertes continues, “I will have it sent to her. Tonight. Granted that you go home to my wife. She’s a little put out that this is the first Jewel Ball she’s missed. I want you to comfort her.”

Something twists in his stomach, out of relief and out of hate. This was the thing about courting sponsors; the experienced ones knew how to sniff out desperation. “Yes, sir.”

“Wonderful. I’ll have my assistant contact your escort.”

-

It turns out that the reason why Laertes’ wife, Mereid, couldn’t attend the Jewel Ball is because she was discharged from the Rehab Center two weeks ago after her spice habit got out of hand and her attending doctor thinks that she should be taking it easy on her newly reconstructed nasal cavity. Of course, that didn’t stop Mereid from inviting a friend over, who invited another friend because that friend is dating someone who distributes the stuff. By the time Cassian arrives, there are a lot of discarded, brightly colored straws everywhere and an alarming number of flat surfaces dusted with remnants of sparkling powder.

Mereid first takes him to the master bedroom, where she has Cassian eat her out and then fuck her on the same bed she shares with her husband. Then she takes him back out to her friends, where they pass the spice and Cassian around for the rest of the night.

Before they really get ramped up, Cassian excuses himself to the restroom to check his datapad. On it is one blinking message; true to his word, Laertes has already phoned in his sponsorship for Jyn’s antibiotic, to be dispatched upon Cassian’s approval. Cassian taps _Accept & Send_, waits for the confirmation ping, sags in relief when he hears it. The datapad doesn’t have access to the live camera feeds; he’s watching for Jyn’s status readouts to update when there’s a singsong voice behind the gilded door at his back.

“Cassian…” Giggling. “I hope you don’t mind but I invited another friend. Don’t worry, she’s just as behaved as the rest of us… Also, she brought more spice.” More giggling that dissolves into cackling that prickles his skin.

See, this was the difference between prostitution and what Snow made him do. He wasn't in charge of his rates—never even saw the payment—or the terms on which he was whored out on. The datapad blinks with a refresh and a confirmed delivery; Cassian can take some relief in that. The time reads 00:12; Jyn will cure herself and get some rest. But the night for him with Mereid and her friends is just getting started.


	22. drugged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: sexual advances between two parties with an age gap (19 vs. late 40s), aftermath of forced prostitution, descriptions of nonconsensual drug use, hurt/comfort, heavy angst

It’s 03:32 when Cassian stumbles out of the party, over half an hour late. It’s not unusual for Cassian to get terribly intoxicated at the fêtes he’s invited to but what _is_ unusual is how long he is taking to leave; he doesn’t like to stay longer than his scheduled appointments. When Draven finally spots him it’s because of a scuffle taking place on the steps; apparently one of the revelers is upset her friend is trying to leave with him. A woman—Draven’s guessing from the glittery, revealing apparel—has a hand down Cassian’s pants stroking him the entire time they quarrel, before both head back into the party and leave him standing alone on the steps. Draven clears his throat as he approaches and Cassian turns to face him as if he’s in a dream, his face betraying no small amount of relief, and Draven is able to get his charge into the waiting car without further incident.

After Cassian slides into the car after him he slides right up into Draven’s space. The backseat is spacious enough to allow for this kind of positioning but Cassian still has to squeeze himself in to sit in the older man’s lap.

“Hi,” he breathes out. His eyes are dilated; his breath smells sharp. Tongue is tinged… orange? A bright flush that’s spread past his cheeks. Most likely quick, and more than likely taken with other drugs.

Cassian reaches out to grab him by the shoulder; his touch is oddly hesitant, as if he’s afraid Draven will pull back. “Dray… _vennn_. My very own, wonderful escort. Thank you for picking me up, _sir_.” As he speaks his slurring melts into a simper, and his face changes to a coquette’s pout; the thumb of his free hand begins to rub circles down where he’s gripping Draven’s thigh.

Is Cassian Andor trying to seduce him?

The nineteen-year-old boy—gods, he has to stop thinking of Andor as a child—starts to rock his hips back and forth from where his ass is seated atop Draven’s thighs. His erection is a noticeable bulge between them, pulling closer and back and closer yet with every tantalizing grind. 

The fact of the matter at hand is: in a matter of weeks, Cassian has become one of Snow’s S-class whores. He’s adapted—well; _unfortunately_ , Draven’s mind surreptitiously adds. It comes as no surprise though. Cassian has a strong survivor’s streak just like his father; both played against the odds no matter how bad they were by outsmarting what they could and adapting where they couldn’t. It was a life strategy taught from father to son. But there was no way that Jeron could have ever prepared Cassian for the post-game, the one that came after the Games, with Snow. Having known the younger Andor for nearly his entire life hardly makes it easier to watch: Draven has watched the boy grow up and get reaped, fight through the Games and afterwards struggle against the consequences. Since Cassian was crowned victor and Snow deemed him ready Draven’s escorted him to and from special appointments of every ilk, and to the necessary Remake visits afterwards; he was there each time Cassian was brought to the President’s manor to shackle up a part of him further, the President cutting away more and more each time until only a creature the Capitol wanted remained.

That’s him, right now, this Cassian writhing in his lap. The friction alone is bringing him close, and his movements are getting more insistent and needy. There are scores of people in the Capitol who are paying exorbitant sums to have Cassian perform for them like this and Draven is just sitting here, getting it for free.

But it’s _not_ free. Watching Cassian be like this—witnessing what’s left of Cassian’s soul erode… it feels his own is eroding with his.

So Draven does what he can: he grabs two handfuls of Cassian’s ass and pulls him flush against his chest. Cassian lets out a noise, the moan shuddering through them both. The boy pulls back to look at him with those blown, too-far-gone pupils and then instead of meeting those sinful lips with his own Draven wraps one arm around his waist, the other arm around Andor’s neck in a headlock, and pulls his head down to speak into his ear.

“Cassian, listen to me. I’m taking you straight back to your quarters, I’m going to run you through the shower and then you’re going to sleep.”

The warm, squirmy body in his lap stops moving. His panting breath is hot and wet by Draven’s ear but it begins to slow nonetheless, until the tension coils out of his shoulders and he goes limp in Draven’s arms. He continues to hold him like that, though; he still has to wait and see if Cassian’s able to come back down from that headspace where everything is thoroughly warped through with sexual purpose.

He hasn’t. When Cassian pulls back once more his eyes are red and he’s in a cold sweat. “Why…” he mumbles, “how is it that the only person I want to sleep with in the _entire_ Capitol… the only one who won’t fuck me?” He’s still high, but the confused dejection makes Draven’s heart twist in his stomach.

“You don’t really want me to fuck you,” is his wooden response. “That’s the quick and whatever else they had you take.”

Cassian doesn’t always take his rebuffs well, but this time he doesn't spiral into one of those tantrums brought on by the clash of heightened arousal and emotion. He looks away and—for a moment, Draven can see the nineteen-year-old boy still beneath Snow’s carefully lacquered mask. Cassian chuckles, a broken sound that’s more like two huffs of air. “Y’know… you tell someone that all they’re worth is sex, they start believing it. They start believing it… they start thinking, y’know, that’s the only way for them to _be_.”

Then Cassian looks at him with a crooked smile, as if trying to read something in Draven’s face that only he can see. “You won’t let me suck you off.”

“No.”

“You won’t… not even a handjob?”

“No.”

“I don’t…” Cassian frowns. “I don’t know what you’re expecting of me, then.”

“I’m expecting to bring you back to your quarters and for you to stop acting like you’re with a client,” Draven snaps, but softens his tone after Cassian looks like he’s been struck. “Rest. We’re still caught in traffic.”

He thinks Cassian is going to finally slide off his lap and let the embarrassment catch up to him, but either the cocktail of drugs he took is turning his brain to mush or he’s really just that exhausted—he slumps forward with his arms around Draven’s neck, his body pressing up against Draven’s, his head tucked into his shoulder. But this time there’s nothing sexual to it: just a tired boy wanting to seek comfort where he can find it.

He shouldn’t be finding it in Draven’s arms. But Draven doesn’t try to move him.

-

It takes two Avoxes to move Cassian out of Draven’s lap, out of the car, and onto a rolling cot a third Avox has readied. Cassian is clearly fucked up, probably the worst Draven has seen him yet, but this is hardly a novelty to the Avox attendants. But when they begin to wheel him inside, he wakes up and somehow pins Draven with such an accusing stare that the escort dismisses the attendants to help the boy back up himself.

After the Hunger Games are over the Tributes’ Tower is practically empty. Sometimes there’s victors like Cassian that Snow has decided to keep around, for whatever reason. But they encounter no one as Cassian limps into the elevator that brings them up to District 5’s floor.

Remaining true to his word, Draven helps Cassian get into the shower and selects one of the presets with soothing aromatics. He helps him with undressing and chooses not to look at Cassian’s naked body any longer than he has to, but it occurs to him that this is the first time he’s really seen Cassian after a client before Remake has had their turn with him.

Tonight had him escorting Cassian to a Decem soirée for a Gamemaker’s eldest daughter. That explained the copious, almost dangerous amount of drugs Cassian had taken—his charge being nineteen himself, such was the recklessness of adolescence. But Draven can’t piece together the bruises, or their locations, to the young, smiling debutante that he had left Cassian with. Nor can he piece together the words scrawled on Cassian’s back, his torso, his thighs.

_Y’know, you tell someone that all they’re worth is sex…_

It’s not any of his business. Draven’s official duties are as District 5’s Capitol representative, and to escort Cassian Andor while he’s here in the Capitol. But he turns away only when the letters start to blur into muddled ink in the lavender-scented steam.

-

In the Remake Center, they have this intravenous drip that will rapidly flush out any intoxicants in the bloodstream that prolong inebriation. It doesn’t do anything for what has already been metabolized, but still—another example of cutting-edge technology at the Capitol’s disposal.

The IV drip that the Avox is inserting into the crook of Cassian’s elbow isn’t anything like that. This one is just a simple hydrating solution, replete with salts and electrolytes. It won’t fix up anything worse than a nasty hangover, but it should help some in the morning.

“Can you stay?” Cassian asks after the Avox leaves. His eyes, half-lidded, find Draven’s in the dimmed light from the bedside lamp.

Draven checks his chronometer—05:12—but then Cassian’s speaking again, his voice a sleepy, half-delirious mumble. “Just ‘til… just until Papa gets back.”

To that, Draven doesn’t say anything. Jeron and Irga, along with the rest of the victors and the twenty-three dead tributes, departed for their respective districts last week. He doesn’t say anything at all, doesn’t undress, just removes his suit jacket and boots and climbs on top of the covers to lay down next to his charge.

Cassian is already asleep by the time Draven settles in. He himself doesn’t sleep at all, just watches as dawn slowly comes in over the Capitol. He waits until its grey light suffuses the lamp’s amber glow into pale yellow, then makes his exit.


	23. exhaustion/sleep deprivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: references to forced prostitution, objectification, nudity, reference to forced vomiting, forced drug use

“Did you see the news, love? Your darling’s made it into the Final Eight.”

Cassian lets a wan smile stretch across his face. “Yes, she’s very fortunate to have the generous sponsorship of gracious people like you.”

He isn’t sure if it actually looked like a smile. But whatever Oryx Balustrade saw there, it must have delighted him. “But of course, Cassian. With such an _involved_ victor like you mentoring, who couldn’t help but support her?”

Oryx has him booked for twelve hours, from 20:00 tonight until 08:00 tomorrow morning. After the Jewel Ball last night and the resulting debacle with Mereid and her friends Cassian had been hoping he would have the rest of the daytime for sleeping off the spice and exhaustion. But no—Kay had woken him up just before noon to eat and to start prepping him for the day’s events: he had a brief appearance to make at Snow’s dedication ceremony for a new private park followed up by the soft opening reception for the newly opened Avarice, a lingerie boutique. Draven had escorted him directly from the reception to the address of another luxurious penthouse. Oryx hasn’t told him what he’s paid for Cassian to do for him yet, only sat him down at an enormous dining table set just for two. They wine and dine, and afterwards Cassian feels sated in a way that would’ve been just perfect to sleep off. But after the dessert course is cleared away Oryx gestures for Cassian to get up on the table.

“Remove your top, if you may,” he calls up to Cassian, who acquiesces to his request. “Hmm.”

He walks around the table to survey how Cassian looks standing upon it barefoot and shirtless, which takes more than a few minutes because the table itself is about twelve feet long. “Lighting, please.”

The recessed lighting in the high ceiling dims as a spotlight flares to life, casting his body into stark relief. “Oh, yes. You’ll look lovely during the reception,” Oryx says approvingly. “You see, there lived an artist from well before the Dark Ages. Meekel Angel, I believe his name was? He sculpted a gorgeous specimen of a man that he called _David_.”

The spotlight is near-blinding and Cassian is starting to sweat; at least monologues like this don’t call for his input. Oryx continues, “You’ll be my own darling David of the night. Quite a few people here to see you; I knew we’d sell out of tickets once I had you booked! We will have you prepared to be as stunning and admired as a truly timeless, unforgettable work of art.”

-

There’s a prep team led by a man named Titus that helps Cassian get ready for the event, and although he wishes that it was Kay and his familiar snark with him it’s not so bad when the stylist doesn’t expect him to talk. They don’t address him directly at all, ever; he might as well already be a statue. They cleanse his skin down to 'beauty base zero' and then spend nearly an hour buffing his body with a polish that makes his skin glisten. The spotlight will make him _shine_. Then his hair is carefully coiffed in its natural style and set with wax.

As they work on him Cassian glimpses the reference photos of the David statue; he wonders if the body polish will render him just as still and lifeless. But one key difference that Oryx opted for is that while David has his rather small member nestled tastefully within pubic hair, Cassian has already been waxed of his; his cock and balls are flaccid and bare.

The event doesn’t start until midnight, which means that after being given a small towel for modesty Cassian is left to his own devices in a sitting room that’s being used for storage. He has an Avox fetch his daybag; he stretches out on a sofa with his datapad to check on Jyn. Yes, she indeed made it to the Final Eight while Cassian was being carted around the Capitol; aside from her there are two more Careers from Districts 2 and 4, the male tributes from 6 and 7, both tributes from District 8, and the female tribute from District 10. Her health readouts look much better than they did last night; with Laertes’ gift, she succeeded in getting to the feast and getting away unscathed. There’s some notifications about funds donated by fan groups, but they’re so nominal to the big donations needed this late in the Games that Cassian barely makes a note of it. He starts to nod off, watching the steady blink of her heartbeat tracker…

…and is woken up by an Avox frantically tugging on his arm. He stumbles to his feet; he’s forced to drop the datapad and doesn’t even have the time to pick up his towel. He’s quickly led down the hallway back to the prep room through the organized chaos of event staff and vendors to a fuming stylist who barks at the prep team to repolish his back and legs and the parts of his body creased from sleep.

“And—you know what,” Titus snaps, addressing Cassian directly for the first time, “Oryx let you eat too much, that paunch has to go. Domitia, if you can get the—”

“Got it,” a green-haired woman with yellow eyes says, handing over a clear vial of liquid. Titus unscrews the cap. “Good, the inhalant is fast-acting. Sniff. Argent, if you can get the bin, we don’t have time to get him to the bathroom—”

Cassian glances down at his toned stomach; Titus must be seeing things. “You want me to throw up?” he asks, aghast.

He struggles briefly with the prep team, and Titus eventually concedes to contour the obliques of his abdominals a little more harshly to account for the invisible bloat from dinner. In contrast to his earlier treatment he’s handled like glass when it comes to getting him in position. Oryx’s dining table has been removed and in its stead is a long platform topped with a long marble slab, on which various other items are being arranged; works of art, like paintings and other sculptures, it turns out, for a philanthropic auction. Cassian isn’t asked to boost himself up onto the platform like Oryx had him do before; instead, they have him stand and do minute variations on the David pose and fuss over hand placement and his hips until Oryx is pleased. Before he’s frozen in place with an electric current however, Titus steps forward with a syringe.

“Last but certainly not least…” Without pause, he leans in close to Cassian’s crotch to stretch taut a patch of skin on his inner thigh and then injects him.

The exhausted daze Cassian had been slipping in and out of is punctured by the sharp pain of instant arousal. Cassian nearly falls backwards but not before he’s caught by someone, and he groans deep in his throat. He’s dizzy from the blood rushing unwanted to his cock, which stiffens rapidly despite the scrutiny of at least five people around him.

“Very nice.” Titus comes in to rub more polish on his balls and shaft, then on the head of his cock; Cassian’s knees buckle with how horribly sensitive he feels to touch. It’s difficult for him to stand and remember the pose exactly—one arm at his side, hips cocked just so, lifting a hand coyly to his mouth—not when he has to think through the haze of exhaustion and agonizing hardness. His facial expression is the hardest to get right because his eyelids keep fluttering shut, and he can’t breathe through his nose like he’s supposed to because he keeps panting through his mouth.

Oryx is called over and eventually they decide to go with what the man dubs a “dazed smolder on the brink of orgasm” look because that’s the only face Cassian can manage at present. Then someone touches him with a metal prod, and the electric current freezes him into a living statue. 

The spotlights bathe him in heat and light and momentarily blind him as he’s lowered onto the marble top; it’s weird feeling the solid coolness under his feet without being able to look down and see it. Being this high up and with his gaze tilted just so he can’t see a lot of what’s happening below him, but as the event staff scurry out and guests begin to arrive he can hear their delighted, lascivious comments.

He knows that he isn’t up for auction alongside the other items—he still doesn’t even know when the event will end, or what Oryx is planning to do with him afterwards— but as he stands there, immobile and powerless, his memories claw him back to the Bacchanal. Snow had him auctioned every year until Cassian’s nineteenth birthday, when a more rigorous marketing plan could be applied. He remembers the restraints and the touch of cool marble on his naked skin. The fear. The tears running down his face as the cacophony grew louder and louder over each piece of him to be auctioned away. The ache in his back from being held in the same position for hours on end. The ache in his jaw. The ache in his…

Oryx’s patrons—no, just guests—pass him by. They admire his shiny physique, his polished beauty. More than once he can feel someone reach out to touch his feet or his ankles. He lets his gaze unfocus where it’s been directed to; the exit sign on the far wall. In his exhaustion, the electric current suspending his limbs in place creates the curious sensation of weightlessness. Still, it’s a disconcerting feeling: as if he’s been cast into a mold of himself, but as an inanimate object. As the night wears on Cassian remains as still as a statue, and his thoughts eventually drift away into a stupor.

He hardly notices when the guests begin to leave, even when the gallery is left completely empty. When an Avox finally presses a prod to his skin that releases the current he collapses on the spot. He doesn’t know what time it is, just lets his gaze drift to the ceiling as he’s moved from the show floor back to the storage room.

He’s deposited on the same sofa he had been awoken from some hours ago; his datapad is still on the floor from where he had dropped it. Fuck, his arms are completely weak—with a lot of difficulty he manages to pick it up; he balances it on his chest, squinting at the bright glare of the screen.

The blinking indicator of Jyn’s heartbeat greets his tired eyes. It’s 06:23 in the Arena; the dawn must be just beginning to touch the sky with its grey light. They’ve both made it through another night, and so he falls asleep watching the steady blinks of her heartbeat tracker.


	24. blindfolded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: forced prostitution, creepy whump, objectification

He would have recognized that voice from anywhere.

Tonight’s appointment requested for him to be nude, blindfolded, sitting back on his heels, no restraints except for forearm cuffs. Nothing out-of-the-norm kinky, just an uncomfortable stress position, but Cassian was okay with that. He’s been running ragged with how far Jyn is in the endgame; at any time the Games could suddenly come to an end, which means his schedule has been packed. Buying victors became almost prohibitively expensive after the Games concluded—which was good for him, but a lot of clients knew that too. With this year being the first he’s been so committed to his tribute, he’s had to embrace the practice.

“Truly, I’m ever so thankful for your graciousness, Mr. President. Being able to serve the Capitol in this capacity has always been my pride.”

“Your dedication merits reward, Orson. Your enthusiasm and exuberance have certainly contributed to the success of each year’s Bacchanal.”

Cassian stiffens as the voices stop just outside the room; then there’s the sound of a door opening and two sets of footsteps approaching.

“Ah, there he is,” one voice coos, and the recognition alone triggers an involuntary response in Cassian—the person speaking is none other than Orson Krennic, master of ceremonies for the Bacchanal. His oily voice, his ingratiating demeanor… the way he took enjoyment in elevating others’ lusts for depravity to new heights in each auction he presided over. That Cassian can’t even see him does enough to drive his nerves into a frenzy, and when he feels a hand on his thigh he can’t help the violent tremor that runs through him.

“How are you, Cassian?” he hears Krennic say. “Pleasure to see you again; I haven’t seen you since your Decem year. Pity we don’t have you at the Bacchanal anymore.”

Cassian doesn’t say anything; his heart is pounding in his throat when he feels another hand come to rest on his shoulder. The cloying smell of roses and blood fills his nose. “Speak, Cassian. Your patron is addressing you.”

Panic is surging in his blood; it threatens to strangle his voice, but still he manages out, “Thank you for having me tonight, sir.”

“Lovely manners,” Krennic laughs to Snow. “Lovely, lovely boy. Tell me, does he still struggle like he used to?”

“If requested. Otherwise, he won’t give you any trouble. He knows his place very well by now.” Snow’s hand leaves his shoulder, and then there’s the sound of his footsteps receding. “I invite you to enjoy your hand in accomplishing that. His escort will be collecting him in three hours’ time. See to it that Cassian is in a suitable state; he has a busy night ahead of him.”

“But of course, Mr. President.” The hand on his thigh disappears; after the sound of the door closing, he hears Krennic move to stand behind him, and then there’s the feel of two gloved hands on his bare shoulders. “Yes, truly a pity that the Bacchanal hasn’t been the same without you yet. If I knew you were this committed to Jyn Erso, I ought to have solicited a fundraiser for your tribute. Perhaps if the Games run long enough…”

One hand moves up to stroke his jaw, and then there’s two gloved fingers pressed to his lips in the wordless command: _suck_. His response is conditioned, automatic; Cassian lets them slip into his mouth, his tongue laving over the taste of leather. Behind the blindfold his eyes are burning with old shame and hate but he will not cry, not this time, he won’t; not in front of Orson Krennic.

“I’m sure that a special event with Cassian Andor will attract quite a few interested parties. For one night only; hosted by yours truly, of course. How would you like that?”


	25. blurred vision/ringing ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: graphic descriptions of minor character death, references to forced prostitution, reference to suicide

Candela is the first to get killed; her escape to the tree line was hampered by the uphill climb to get out of the rocky ditch that the 67th Hunger Games’ Cornucopia is in. The male Career tribute from District 1 kills her with a sledgehammer to the throat. Cassian watches her head snap all the way to the right, the neck bent at an unnatural angle, and her body hits the ground, motionless; a clean break to the neck.

Garrick made it a while longer on his own, but chose not to heed Cassian’s repeatedly stressed advice to skip the skirmish over supplies and made his escape route include a wide arc towards a backpack and a sleeping bag. Those extra seconds put him in the scope of a pair of Careers, who run him down easily and then kill him with their knives.

Both of his tributes dead in the first five minutes of the 67th Hunger Games. How could this happen?

He had weighed their odds carefully. District 5 fell squarely between the Career districts and the poorer districts when it came to anticipating the Games. The district itself was well off enough that tesserae wasn’t necessary for the majority of households, which meant that the extent of the Games in the populace’s mind was a hope and a prayer for their children to not be chosen on Reaping Day. No Games training was offered for the glory of volunteering because no glory was seen in the practice—District 5 had the lowest volunteer rate out of all the districts—and so it wasn’t a surprise that Cassian’s first year of mentoring began with two unremarkable tributes: Candela Invers, a fifteen-year-old girl, and Garrick Thule, a sixteen-year-old boy.

Garrick was the son of a power plant supervisor and had hardly an inkling for survival; he didn’t go to the fire-starting station or the edible plants station, or any of the other stations for basic survival skills that Cassian urged him to. A lot of his time during the three allotted training days was spent away from the other tributes, hiding his fear behind indifference; unsurprisingly, he scored only a 3 in the evaluation. Candela on the other hand had been game enough to ask for Cassian’s advice in the training room and went over strategies with him for acing her interview; just last night on Caesar Flickerman’s show she had made a favorable impression on the audience, especially after Caesar brought up the 7 that she scored in the Gamemakers’ evaluations. Cassian could work with that; if she could survive on her own for the first three days, he could start talking her up to potential sponsors. He wasn’t going to bet on whether or not Garrick could survive that long on his own, but in the end it didn’t even matter because now both of his tributes are dead.

He can’t take his eyes off the carnage of the bloodbath, projected on the main screen of the mentors’ observation deck. It takes several long moments before he yanks off his headset; with Candela and Garrick dead the only sounds their mics were picking up is the ambient noise of children killing other children. But it’s too late; the sounds won’t leave his ears; it coalesces into screaming that he knows isn’t real, but it sounds more and more similar to Teak’s—

He pushes himself away from the console and tries to stand up, but has to lean his weight against it when his legs threaten to give out from underneath him. The room is starting to spin in a way that has everything to do with the roar of blood and screams in his ears, how lightheaded he feels, and… shit. He needs to sit back down.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, pushing him firmly but gently back down onto his chair. “Both of yours bit the dust? First time’s rough; it doesn’t get any easier.”

The sole victor and mentor of District 12, Haymitch Abernathy, is holding out a bottle of liquor to him. Still breathing heavily, Cassian shakes his head no; they both look back to the broadcast on the main screen. The camera is panning a bird’s-eye view over the action at the Cornucopia, before cutting over to where the two Careers from District 1 who killed Garrick are cutting down another tribute. The tally on the screen reads nine dead, fifteen tributes still in play. The Career pack is finishing up the bloodbath and have yet to hunt for tributes who escaped to the trees, which means it’s still likely a death or three will be added to the projected death count at the end of the day. But as far as where Cassian is concerned, his first stint as a mentor in the Hunger Games is over.

Cassian thinks about reaching for the proffered bottle, but decides against it. Haymitch is an alcoholic, foul-smelling and drunk more often than not. Jeron always told his son to stay away from him, but Jeron isn’t here anymore. His heartbeat feels like it stops as it does each time the realization washes over him anew— _your father’s dead, while you didn’t kill him you might as well have_ —but after that split second of grief he still keeps breathing.

“C’mon. Let’s get some fresh air, you look like you could use it.” The look that Haymitch is giving him is half-pointed, half-pitying; Cassian gets up to go with him.

-

Cassian has never been to the top floor of the Tower; he didn’t even know that such a place existed. The tinkling of the wind chimes drowns out the ringing in his ears, until he can blink up at the noonday sun without his vision doubling over.

“It’s a shame about your old man,” Haymitch says to him. “Power explosion, right?”

The younger victor can’t trust himself to speak, so he nods.

“Took out Irga too? Seems a little convenient to me.”

Cassian wants to say, _I know the truth, they tried to torture it out of me_. But he doesn’t; what comes out instead is, “Yeah, that’s why I’m mentoring alone; I don't think I'll be bringing home a tribute any time soon.”

The look that Haymitch gives him has a flash of disappointment, but then it disappears as the older victor takes a swig of his booze and grunts. “Look, it doesn’t matter if you’re a good mentor or not, whether your tributes die or not. The Capitol gets their twisted entertainment regardless.”

“So we should just let them die _?_ ”

Haymitch snorts. “I’m surprised you think it’s worth letting them _live_. You of all people should know being a victor doesn’t mean you won.”

Well, he can’t say anything to that. They look up to see an Avox approaching; apparently, to hand Cassian a powder blue envelope.

Haymitch juts his chin out at the envelope. “Snow’s had his claws in you for a long time hasn’t he, kid? I wouldn't be surprised if your tributes got taken out early because our dear president thinks you shouldn’t be spending your precious time in the Capitol _mentoring_.”

Cassian turns the summons over in his hands but doesn’t break the seal yet. What happened to attractive and desirable victors was an open secret but the confirmation that Haymitch knew still stings; it made him wonder just how many of the other victors had known, if any of them talked to his father about it.

Jeron couldn’t have suspected anything of him, Cassian was too good of a liar. But his self-loathing wrestles briefly with the fear that maybe Jeron knew after all, even before his disastrous Decem year.

But no, he couldn’t have. He would have done something about it sooner, he wouldn’t have let Snow turn his son into a whore. Right?

But he knows it wouldn’t have changed anything, let alone the fatal outcome. There was no other way to impel Cassian into a mentoring position, not when Snow wanted him to solicit for a more lucrative purpose. Jeron couldn’t have known that Snow would kill his mentoring partner to devastate his son in retaliation; while Lila had been left alive as the last direct leverage Snow had against Cassian, it needed to be shown that there was no way any victor could act without consequence.

Cassian opens the envelope, looks at the three lines: a name, a place, a time. He thinks about the system that drove his dad to believe that suicide was the only option, that forced him to play into the Capitol’s hand to save his son, then made him realize that in the end he couldn’t protect him at all.


	26. alternate prompt: altered states

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: reliving noncon sexual trauma, explicit nsfw, angsty masturbation

It made sense that he had dreams about it.

Dreams about things they made him do and of things done to him. As far as Cassian’s sexual experience went the entirety of it was at the hands of his Capitol clientele. He couldn’t even touch himself without thinking of how many times he was asked to do it for someone else’s pleasure, which made waking up from those kinds of dreams… difficult.

He’ll dream of being touched in the dark by many unseen hands. He’ll dream of being tied up in rope or chains or silk. He’ll dream of being on his knees, his mouth pried open with an O-ring, eyes downcast to avoid eye contact with the faceless figure before him but then a hand will tilt his face upwards…

Trauma twisted these encounters into something else, suppressed the fear to let the arousal bleed into his subconsciousness. Awake, the memories are piercing shards of fear and terror, but it’s when he’s asleep that his treacherous mind turns his worst memories into the worst fantasies—

Being forced to his knees, flipped onto his back or onto his stomach. Getting fucked while others watched. Fingers and cocks pressing into his mouth. Hands around his throat, hands on his hips, hands holding him apart. Lips and teeth and tongue and touch, everywhere. The way semen mixed with saliva and dribbled out of his mouth, down his jawline, down his neck. The way his chest looked painted with someone else’s cum. Wet heat. Sticky fingers. Being stroked lovingly, roughly, possessively. A firm grip tangled in his hair. Being slapped, being choked. Being fucked until he couldn’t cry out anymore. The way his breath would catch on a scream in his throat, how someone's mouth on his could swallow it.

He would wake up from these dreams, aching and hard and leaking under the bed sheets. It was hard to reconcile his body’s wants with the truth of those memories: in them he was a commodity, bought and paid for, being used. His subconscious only recalled the climax and its awful pleasure and not the molestation behind it; his conscious mind only felt the shame. It burned through him with his arousal, staying his hand long enough for the sweat to cool on his skin as he fought to get himself under control.

But when he didn’t… when he couldn’t… he’d take himself in hand and squeeze his eyes shut. Those nights his time in the Capitol is inescapable: behind his eyelids those scenes play out over each other in a blur, faster and faster until his self-disgust is overwhelmed by his body’s physical reaction to it—he comes and then hates himself for it after. 


	27. earthquake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: graphic depictions of minor character death and injuries

The earthquake strikes everyone unaware.

It’s Jyn versus the four surviving tributes—the boys from Districts 6 and 7, plus the girls from Districts 8 and 10—who have teamed up to fortify the ruins of what might have once been a multi-storied storefront. The alliance was made quickly, and hastily, and even took down the remaining two Careers. Audience engagement is at a fever pitch; things always rose to a crescendo this late into the Games, but with an upset like this the clamor to see how it all ends is growing massively.

It looks like Jyn will have to siege their little stronghold and Cassian is at a loss for how she can accomplish that. No sponsor gift can even out her odds against a team of four tributes. He’s pondering the likelihoods of the alliance turning on each other but it’s the Gamemakers that turn the tide.

The ground starts shaking a quarter to midnight and in the span of five minutes all of the crumbled ruins of the city have been flattened in the earthquake. For several long minutes only the dust rising from the destruction in the light of the moon is visible.

Jyn had been close to the remaining tributes’ hideout, resting in the shadows of a doorway. She was hidden but close enough that her mic picked up their faint screams when the earthquake struck and all the buildings collapsed.

When the dust finally settles enough for the cameras to get a good look at the decimated Arena there’s Jyn: she’s been partially buried by chunks of rubble and only the back of her torso is visible to the cameras but over the mic there’s the sound of her coughing furiously, _alive_.

That’s when Cassian looks up from the live feeds on his console to the public broadcast playing on the main screen of the mentors’ observation deck. A commentator is saying that the death cannon sounded off three times during the earthquake; the official tally ticks up to 22 dead tributes, 2 in play. There’s no way Cassian can know if Jyn heard the shots, or if she even knows that the earthquake transformed the Arena into an even playing field in more ways than one.

Then the big screen’s broadcast flashes _Final Match: District 5 vs. District 8_. So it’s the female from District 8 who Jyn needs to find and kill, then. Sixteen-year-old Pinafore Bernette. The tension on the observation deck is tight; Cassian can hear the mentors of 6, 7, and 10 talking over to each other, the sounds of victors who had mentored eliminated districts reappearing for the final fight.

On screen, Jyn is extracting herself from the rubble, but not easily; she lets out a frustrated yell when a large piece of wall that her left leg is caught under won’t give way. The Arena has been demolished so thoroughly she only has her memory of the general direction of the hideout to point her way; all the streets are buried under broken debris. Depending on where Pinafore is buried, Jyn could be digging through the rest of the night—or worse, have to wait until dawn.

Everything is still in the moonlight except for Jyn and her shadow as she moves slowly through the rubble. After limping heavily to the likely spot Jyn pauses to lean against the remains of a doorway. But Cassian hears her suck in a sharp breath of surprise a split second before she wobbles and falls on the live feed. What once was a building’s walls is now a large pile of pulverized brick and mortar, near the bottom of which there’s a dust-covered hand reaching out and gripping onto Jyn’s ankle; it has to be Pinafore.

Now Jyn has to dig her out. Her mic picks up Pinafore’s muffled and broken, wordless pleas. When Jyn finally pulls away the last of the debris covering her face and neck she’s barely recognizable: while trapped under the rubble her broken nose has leaked blood, pooling in rivulets on the veil of grey dust covering her facial features. The camera catches the fluttering of her eyelashes and her lips moving before Jyn pulls out a knife from her utility pack. She smooths back the once-auburn hair of Pinafore from her face, brushes away the dirt and dust from her throat. Unlike him eight years ago she doesn’t hesitate and the streaky grey blooms dark red; Cassian and the rest of Panem watch Jyn while she watches the sixteen-year-old girl die.

It takes a few minutes. Then Claudius Templesmith’s voice suddenly booms, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the victor of the 70th Hunger Games… Jyn Erso! The female tribute of District 5!”

Cassian can hardly dare to breathe; he slumps back against his chair, watching the last scenes of the 70th Hunger Games play out on his console. The cameras pan around Jyn; Cassian can’t get a good read of her face before the hovercraft materializes overhead and they drop the ladder to pick her up.

He should get up and celebrate, maybe. He’s brought his first tribute back alive in his first success as a mentor; he knows some of the victors from the Career districts, like Cashmere and Brutus, will come over to give congratulations. But to him, winning the Hunger Games never felt like a victory and neither does mentoring a winning tribute. Was this how his father felt, watching his son be declared victor after plummeting with Alabaster to her death?

Instead of getting up, Cassian closes his eyes. When he feels a hand on his shoulder it’s Draven. He says, “The hovercraft will be here with Jyn in twenty minutes. Meanwhile you can review the post-Games interview questions for the finalists’ panel with Flickerman, but that isn’t until the morning. Your schedule’s clear before that so I suggest you rest after you see her.” As always the man is inscrutable, but there’s the briefest shadow of a smile and an unexpected warmth in his voice.

Cassian nods, then lets out a sigh of relief. It’s real, as real as Draven’s hand, squeezing his shoulder gently. She’s coming back. He’s bringing her home.


	28. alternate prompt: stoic whumpee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: explicit sexual content, nonconsensual sexual acts performed for a third person, references to underaged prostitution; pairing is Cassian/Finnick
> 
> nsfw specific warnings: noncon exhibitionism, masturbation, messy blowjob, deepthroating, face fucking, facial, come eating

The powder blue envelope comes after the hovercraft bearing the 70th Hunger Games victor straight from the Arena touches down on the roof of the Tributes’ Tower. Cassian is already there, waiting to greet Jyn: in spite of the battle between adrenaline and exhaustion playing out on her face, her green eyes light up when she sees him for all of two seconds before one of the medical attendants approaches with a sedative in the form of a hypodermic syringe and she collapses into his arms. She’s filthy—the plaster dust coating her entire body cakes onto him when he holds her close—but he doesn’t care, just buries his face into her matted, grimy hair for as long as they allow him to before she’s loaded onto a medical cot and rushed off to the Remake Center. He did it; he brought her back from the Arena. She’s alive.

He and Draven have just turned back around to head to the elevator when they’re intercepted by an Avox with a powder blue envelope for him. _Presidential Manor. At earliest convenience._

There was some humor to it, Cassian thinks. As if anything Snow requested of him ever occurred with consideration to his personal convenience.

-

He’s delivered to Snow’s office where the president and a leatherbound folio on his desk are waiting for him. The smooth dark leather is embossed with the seal of Panem, and the letters in gilded font beneath it read “District 5”. It could have been the same exact one that held the plans for his Decem year and after; Cassian hesitates only a second before flipping it open. No, this is the blueprint of the president’s plans for both Cassian and Jyn.

Of course he plans to sell them. Jyn’s victory wrote her name into Snow’s black book; Cassian’s role in her accomplishing that meant his return to the regularly scheduled roster. And of course he’s planning to list them together; with the fervor the Capitol is in over the Stardust Lovers, as they’ve been called, Snow stands to profit handsomely from them.

Aside from the pages outlining expected conduct the folio helpfully includes market data on him and Jyn’s favorability, as separate and together, current and projected; Jyn is currently charting best with the male adult segment, ages 19-25. Seeing the plans for her future commodification defined so clearly is what causes the objection to fall from Cassian’s lips.

Snow’s saying, “With her performance in the Games, she’s already proven to be a popular victor. You contributing to her desirableness certainly helped.”

“Thank you, sir. But the relationship I have with Jyn… what will happen with us?”

Snow’s expression doesn’t change, though Cassian can feel the shift in the air. It’s like that breath of a moment before the snake is about to strike. “I suggest you peruse Section Four more carefully, Cassian. The expectations for your relationship are outlined there.”

Section Four is titled _Three Year Outlook_. Year 0 is present day; after Jyn is crowned victor at the 70th Hunger Games’ Closing Ceremony they’re to return to District 5 where Jyn will move into her own separate house in Victor’s Village, but they are expected to build on their chemistry and romance for the press on the Victory Tour. Cassian will be attending the tour with Jyn as her mentor; she is slated to return to District 5 at the conclusion of the tour while Cassian is scheduled for a few more days in the Capitol. 

Year 1 will be their debut as an official couple at the 71st Hunger Games, sharing mentorship of District 5’s tributes together. The excitement from last year will carry over with renewed interest in their relationship. After their participation as mentors is over—which will be manufactured to last no longer than a week—Jyn will not be saleable, but Cassian will be. The media will then paint it as the Capitol’s golden boy cheating on their undeserving damsel’s heart. The public will mourn the resulting break-up, thus officially releasing Cassian and Jyn from their commitment to each other.

In Year 2, he and Jyn will both be on the regularly scheduled roster alongside mentor duties; Jyn will be scheduled on the A- or B-list depending on Year 1’s metrics. Despite a devastating breakup, the dramatics of their romance will ensure a lot of interest in buying them jointly.

The air in the room suddenly feels too thick to breathe. But Cassian has to keep his head. He has to; no, this is too much. He just saved Jyn’s life from the Games, and already Snow is slotting her into his machinations as if she’s—as if she’s just—because to save her, she had to become—

The next victor to exploit.

No, she’s become so much more than that to him by now. He’s spent the last two weeks fretting over her survival in the Games, scrambling to improve her odds in the Arena the only way he knew how. He’s long been tainted by the Capitol so it didn’t matter how he achieved that, but he didn’t do everything he did—didn’t willingly cut himself to pieces, over and over again—to help her win, just for her to be swept into the same cycle of sexual enslavement his life has been ruled and ruined by?

No. No, no, no. He won’t let Snow use Jyn as another pawn in his schemes. No, he promised. He promised that he would bring her home. So that she could…

…escape.

He was able to give her another shot at reuniting with her mother, to escape from the districts and out of Snow’s reach. Throughout the Games there’s been a heedless spark of hope in his heart that refuses to go out, despite the fact that he doesn’t know if she will take him with her. He hadn’t dared to ask. But right now, staring down at Snow’s plans for them both, he can’t falter over his role in Jyn’s. Right now, all he needs to focus on is the promise he made to a girl on a rooftop to help her see her mother again.

Their first night in the Capitol seems like it was a lifetime ago now. But even caged within the forcefield surrounding the Tributes’ Tower and trapped under the Capitol sky, he had seen another possibility for himself for the first time when Jyn spoke of her life, so very different than his own. While they both lost parents because of Snow, Cassian losing his father had dissolved any trace of defiance in the wake of a life-shattering event. But for Jyn, losing her father and then her mother only fueled the inferno of her resolve. She refused to let the reaping condemn her to death and made it clear from the get-go she was going to fight.

Her fierce determination sparked a fire in him where there wasn’t one before. If Jyn Erso hadn’t been his tribute, would he ever have believed it was possible to want better for himself? To hope for it, even? He can’t say.

Snow’s waiting for his response. The only option he has to protect them both is the only way he’s been able to survive since the true purpose of a victor was forced upon him: lie and comply. He has to make Snow believe he’s still under his thumb, until the moment the cameras are off when they’re back home in District 5; only then will he and Jyn have the chance to talk and figure things out.

“It does. Thank you, sir.” Cassian’s voice is toneless, but deferential. At least he doesn’t have to pretend enthusiasm in Snow’s office; the only thing that matters to the president is his unhesitating obedience.

Snow smiles, dabs at his mouth with a handkerchief. It comes away with a splotch of red before he folds it over. “You’ve always been a quick study, Cassian. Just like your father. You understand that victory is never achieved without cost, a cost that you will be sharing with Miss Erso.”

Cassian doesn’t say anything. If he’s lucky this is the extent of Snow’s admonishment. But no, he’s not that lucky.

At that moment there’s a knock before the double doors of the office swing open to admit Finnick Odair. Cassian glimpses the two escorting Peacekeepers behind him before the two Peacekeepers guarding the doors close them shut, leaving the two victors standing in front of the president at his desk.

Finnick looks just as confused to see Cassian as Cassian is to see him, but the nineteen-year-old isn’t as good at hiding it. Startled sea-green eyes bore into his before Finnick remembers where he is.

“You requested me, sir?”

Snow looks between them both. “Cassian, I’m certain you’ve heard of Finnick Odair. Finnick, this is Cassian Andor. His father won the 48th Hunger Games.”

They turn to face each other then, and Cassian looks him over. He’s never actually met Finnick Odair, the youngest victor of the Hunger Games and darling of the Capitol, up close and speaking. They’re only a few years apart in age so they entertain the same pool of clients; they’ve known the same people, been to the same bedrooms, hired for the same events… but they’ve not so much as even held eye contact.

Well, Finnick is looking at him now. He’s been the hottest victor for a while now; over the years the Capitol has eagerly—hungrily—watched his growth through puberty, as youth’s rounded cheeks melted into well-defined cheekbones and a handsome jawline. His skin is perpetually bronzed with a tan from District 4, and the sun’s kissed his hair to gold. From the way he’s dressed he might be en route to a client. Or maybe not; whoever was his stylist always toed the line between Finnick’s twin reputations of tasteful risqué and insatiable slut.

“Cassian,” Snow says, addressing him directly, “lately it’s come to my attention that Finnick has had some difficulties complying with his clients’ requests. I thought it would be beneficial to arrange a demonstration of the subservience that is expected of him.”

His skin prickles. So that’s what Snow wants him here for, to use him as a tool to aid in the punishment of another victor. But Finnick doesn’t get it yet.

“Sir, if this is about Sophmora I can explain, just—please don’t—"

Snow cuts him off. “No, this will be the only time I’m letting you off the hook without consequence to your loved ones, Finnick. Provided that you convince me of your unquestioning obedience.”

He then nods to Cassian. “Touch yourself.”

There’s a beat of silence as the words hang in the air, before Cassian perceives it as an order and he closes his eyes. His hand finds the zipper of his pants and drifts down lower to palm himself gently, then a little rougher. He’s not anywhere near erect; he strains to slip out of mind, out of Snow’s office, into that headspace where all that matters is the next directive. The sooner he can get hard, the faster he can get on with Snow’s fucked up demonstration.

But then he hears Snow speak again. “Finnick. On your knees; I want you to help him.”

At that Cassian’s eyes fly open. Finnick doesn’t turn to him, not right away, but when he does Cassian can see the pain in his expression before it’s smoothed away. The younger victor sinks to his knees, bringing himself to eye level with Cassian’s hips.

“Show your enthusiasm.”

He doesn’t hesitate to nuzzle the growing bulge in Cassian’s pants; he even takes Cassian’s wrist to guide his fingers into his mouth. The contact of his fingertips with Finnick’s warm, wet tongue does something for his cock; he lets the arousal build, reminds himself that it’s all just physical after a point. But he hates that he’s getting turned on by this, has to get turned on by this, has to be used as a pawn in Snow’s twisted punishment.

That’s when Snow says, “Finnick, service Cassian as you would service a patron. Orally.”

Cassian stops breathing at the same time Finnick’s movements cease. Both of them have long been subjected to Snow’s tests of submissiveness; this is just one of them. But there’s something that feels… so… wrong about this…—

Finnick’s hands slide up Cassian’s thighs to his belt, making quick work of the buckle and pulling down the zipper, before sliding his pants down just enough to expose his undershorts. He nuzzles the curved outline of his cock, breathes heavily on his clothed erection—Cassian’s toes curl in anticipation—and then he’s slipping his undershorts down to let Cassian’s cock spring free.

Finnick has been doing this long enough that the movements are well-rehearsed. He uses his mouth to lick his way up from base to tip and then swallows around the head of his cock; Cassian can’t help the groan that comes out of his throat, especially when Finnick wraps both hands around his shaft and his head starts to move. It feels good because Finnick is good at this, and he feels horrible for thinking that because he knows the only reason why Finnick is this good is because Snow forced him into prostitution at an even younger age than he. Over time the youngest victor of the Hunger Games with his cocky, boyish charm was remade into the Capitol’s boy toy, entrenched in the trappings of irresistible sex appeal; even earlier than that his debut Bacchanal event had far eclipsed Cassian’s own. While Cassian himself had been considered desirable at a young age Jeron was able to protect him to some degree; his paternal presence hindered Snow from selling him so blatantly. But for Finnick, there was no one who could hold off the Capitol’s predations. Snow exercised total control of his life and made a lot of money from it.

“Eye contact, Finnick.” The younger victor’s eyes flick up to Cassian’s. Those sea-green eyes shine up at him as he dips his head lower to mouth at Cassian’s balls, cupping them closer to his lips and tongue. Pleasure threatens to overwhelm Cassian right then, but the helplessness threatening tears in Finnick’s eyes stops him short.

That’s when Snow says, “Deepthroat him.”

So Finnick does it. He somehow does it without breaking that desperate eye contact; Cassian watches those lips sink lower and lower around his cock until they’re pressed flush to waxed-bare skin; when he swallows around his length he has Cassian seeing stars—

“Cassian, fuck his mouth.”

And Cassian does it. He hides the way his hand is shaking with a tight grip on the golden locks at the back of Finnick’s head. He has to look away from the anguish in those pleading eyes before his hips pull back slightly out of the tight, wet heat of Finnick’s throat and then he thrusts back in.

It’s just one more terrible thing in a very long list of many appalling acts he’s taken part in since being reaped. Cassian closes his eyes as he does what he’s been ordered to do, just as Finnick kneels there and takes it like he was ordered to. That’s what both of them are here for, really: to be manipulated like puppets, as a horribly carnal reminder of who’s ultimately pulling their strings. No matter what choices they have the illusion of taking—Cassian saved Jyn, Finnick said no; it doesn’t matter in Snow’s grand schemes for them. This is a reminder of that.

Cassian doesn’t know how long Snow has him do it, fucking Finnick’s mouth without any regard to the noises the younger victor manages to make. His mounting despair over their powerlessness has drowned any rational thought; he’s long turned off that part of his brain. But eventually his exhales start coming out in short pants.

Snow says, “Finish on his face.”

Cassian jerks Finnick’s head back by the scalp; his cock pops out of the younger victor’s mouth with a wet cough as his other hand comes up to jerk himself in quick, pistoning pumps—his cock is so slick with Finnick’s blowjob spit, and it’s that disgusting thought that tips him over the edge; he squeezes his eyes shut as his cock is spent. When he opens his eyes Finnick is still staring at him, now the exact picture of debauched the Capitol so loves to pay for: his cheeks flushed with exertion, lips swollen from abuse, his face painted with streaks of come.

“Good. Now, clean it up.”

Cassian drops to his knees in front of the younger victor. The raw, vulnerable sheen in those sea-green eyes has vanished, dulling to a vacant stare. Cassian’s familiar with that headspace, knows Finnick’s retreated to the only place where he can wait for it to be over. But Snow’s still waiting for them to finish their demonstration.

Finnick’s eyes slip closed when Cassian leans in to kiss the ejaculate off his lips, then licks a dripping stripe off his nose. When Cassian gets to the mess on one cheek he breathes more than whispers, _I’m sorry_ —his mouth barely moves.

Then he licks down along Finnick’s jawline, peppering open-mouthed kisses for good measure. When he’s about to pull back Finnick catches one hand, kisses it, cradles it to his face; his lips obscured, he mouths back, _Don’t be_.

-

Snow has them both stand up and with that comes Cassian’s dismissal. But before he leaves, Snow informs him of how he’s supposed to prepare Jyn of what will be expected of her in the future: this recording of Cassian and Finnick will make it to Cassian’s house in District 5’s Victors’ Village. They don’t have to watch it together, but Snow will know when Jyn has viewed it. When she does view it.

That part of Cassian that’s gone automatic thanks the president, then turns to go. But as he does, he sees a glimpse of Finnick’s face before the younger victor steps forward for his own audience with Snow. The agonized expression in those eyes pangs sympathy in his own; he remembers the old panic and fear, how it felt like the walls were closing in. When he still struggled out of reflex, not knowing the futility. Before he accepted that this was going to be his life now.

The bit in his mouth. His place in Snow’s list.

But still, even still, as he leaves the President’s mansion there’s that flicker of hope in his chest. He doesn’t try to breathe on that spark, any more than he tries to let it warm him. But now that he's saved her, he can still hope that he can buy the time that Jyn will need to find her way out, and he can still hope that he’ll escape with her.


	29. alternate prompt: nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: references to forced prostitution, creepy whump

After a fitful sleep Cassian wakes.

Draven arrives in the morning to escort him to the finalists’ interview with Caesar Flickerman. Of course, all of the tributes who made it to the finals except for Jyn are dead, so the mentors are the ones being interviewed. It’s not so much a panel-style interview as it is about Flickerman edging in jokes about Cassian and Jyn that make him uncomfortable but he laughs along anyway, lets the audience see a relieved, devoted, grateful lover boy anticipating his reunion with his sweetheart.

The rest of the day is filled with various publicity events he has to attend.

-

After a fitful sleep Cassian wakes.

He’s wanted at the Remake Center to consult on Jyn. The Gamemakers have a long list of improvements they wish to make. Cassian refuses them all; he knows that he has no power in the final decision but he plays up her natural beauty and insists on his sincere, undeniable attraction to it. The lead designer coos over what she calls a ‘charming, backwards sort of animal magnetism’ but the only improvement thus ordered for Jyn is the full body polish, the standard for freshly-made victors. Cassian internally heaves a sigh of relief.

The rest of the day is more publicity, this time geared towards thanking the sponsors of the lesser tiers below the President’s Circle that will not be attending the Victory Banquet. A powder blue envelope comes at dinner to dictate the rest of his evening.

-

After a fitful sleep Cassian wakes.

It takes him a moment to realize that he is not in his quarters at the Tributes’ Tower and instead he’s still in Trimalchio Plena’s massive bed. His patron from last night. Did Draven forget to pick him up?

No, the thought strikes him as stupid as soon as he thinks of it. Draven always comes to get him at the end of an appointment. Always on time; never late or earlier. So he lays there in the dark, his surroundings foreign and cold as the sleeping arms he woke up embraced in, until an Avox comes to wake Trimalchio and to escort him back to his escort.

Trimalchio’s decidedly softcore tastes did not leave him in a state that necessitated a trip to the Remake Center, so he’s driven back to the Tributes’ Tower where his peevish head stylist is waiting for him.

Kay sniffs; his unimpressed demeanor hardly ever disguises his eagerness for verbal jousting. “You’re late.”

“No, he is not,” Draven curtly replies. Cassian cuts through the beginnings of their portentous exchange and heads to his bathroom, where Kay has already started the shower on his preferred preset. After a few precious minutes to himself Kay comes in to sit and talk to him about his plans for Jyn’s final interview dress— _strapless_ _dress, or perhaps a backless jumpsuit? There is a 87% chance that doing so will become the next season’s fashion trend._ —while Cassian lets the hot water cascade down his face, neck, shoulders, chest. They continue the conversation over breakfast where Draven has already poured him a cup of caf.

More interviews. Another appearance at some soft opening ceremony. More nonsense.

A powder blue envelope.

-

After a fitful sleep Cassian wakes.

He’s not really ready to be awake; he wakes up to throw up because he got far too intoxicated at the behest of last night’s winsome, if not implacable, client. The lights are still on from the party, but he’s the only one stumbling around at this hour. He passes a few rooms that have people dozing in them. He had been sleeping on the floor.

Where is Draven?

After throwing up he hunches down by the toilet and puts his head in his arms. The ornate clock ticking away on the wall reads 07:02.

Draven comes for him an hour later and brings him back to District 5’s floor. Kay has the mockup of Jyn’s dress and another of the jumpsuit on two similarly proportioned Avoxes, and the three of them pass commentary until Cassian excuses himself to throw up again; he sees Kay get up to follow with a roll of their eyes and a sigh.

Kneeling down next to him the head stylist presses two wake-up pills into Cassian’s palm and calls for an Avox to bring a glass of warmed water. “You shouldn’t be so dour; I’m already working on your outfits for the Victory Tour. So you won’t have to trouble yourself, opining on my designs, until next year.”

Cassian doesn’t say anything, just presses his head against the cool marble of the toilet seat. Kay is trying to be supportive in their own misinformed Capitolite way, but he could do without the reminder that things aren’t really over and that the Games don’t ever end.

Kay and the prep team get him ready for a solo photo shoot as part of an exclusive interview with Capitol Weekly. Draven informs him that there is an afterparty he is obligated to attend, thrown in honor of his first successful mentoring stint and the love he’s found in the Games. Cassian regrets not asking Kay for more wake-up pills but he figures he should be able to get his hands on some anyway.

-

After nearly twenty-four hours of being awake, Cassian falls asleep. But not really. It’s more like he closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he’s in Sophmora’s dungeon. There’s no mistaking it—the purple and black tiles beneath his feet, the smell of candlewax from the burning sconces on the walls. Anticipation rakes his shoulders, as well as unfettered lust.

But even in a dream it’s unsettling to be here, walking around unrestrained. Cassian isn’t even sure why he’s dreamt up this place, of all places, until he sees her.

She’s naked save for some leather straps, the dominatrix turned submissive: a spreader bar is tucked into the crook of her knees and a gold chain links her leather boots together by the ankles. Gold cuffs bind her wrists overhead to the back of a gold collar around her neck. Her back is facing him but he knows that she senses his approach.

Without him thinking it, a devilish smirk works its way onto his face. An Avox pushes Sophmora’s trolley of torture tools his way, and Cassian marvels over each one—his hand hovers over each, until he picks up the cat o’ nines.

Sophmora’s speaking to him; it’s hard to describe, but he knows she’s speaking to him without hearing a word from her lips. His mouth opens in reply; their exchange is obscene, pornographic, a near-perfect reversal of their formal roles as the buyer and the bought. He says without speaking that he’s been looking forward to this, hurting her in the same ways she’s hurt him. Inflicting pain for the pleasure of her punishment.

He steps behind her, trails the knotted ends of the whip over her bare back. She shudders; he laughs, and that’s how Cassian knows he’s dreaming because the whip feels too solid, too comfortable in his hand.

Before they get started he leans in close behind and reaches around to cup her face. Sophmora's always used this creepy and intimate move on him; she turns her face away, just as he’s done the same. But when he cruelly grips her chin to jerk her face back to his instead of Sophmora’s blood red irises he’s startled by a pair of green, stardust-flecked eyes.

 _No_ —

He tries to stumble back but every movement of his has been choreographed to a script; he’s forced to watch as Jyn’s fearful eyes fill with tears and she tries to curl herself away from him. He hears her cries and accusations without hearing a word from her lips; _why did you save me if this is what I’m condemned to do? You should have let me die, let me **die** , **let me die**_ —

Cassian pulls back, stands up. He can still hear her sobs without noise. Then he rears his arm back to strike, and then he—

-

After a fitful sleep Cassian wakes.

When he sits down in the dining room Draven informs him that Jyn is to be discharged from the Remake Center today, eight hours before the Closing Ceremony, after which they will convene at the president’s mansion for the Victory Banquet which will then take up the remainder of his schedule through the end of the night. Tomorrow will be Jyn’s final interview with Caesar Flickerman at 2 o’clock and then they’ll board the train back to District 5. Cassian should feel relieved; he really should. The end of this horrible nightmare is in sight.

But he has to see Jyn first. In spite of what Draven just told him there’s a fear he has: that the past few days have all been a dream, that he’ll wake up and Jyn will still be in the Arena fighting for her life. He knows that isn’t true. But until he can see Jyn, touch her, hold her in his arms—

— _without a whip in hand, though that was a nightmare too_ —

—he can’t be too sure he isn’t dreaming.


	30. wound reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: none, except for a lot of dramatic irony-based angst :)

“And remember, Jyn: one fighter with a sharp stick and nothing to lose…”

“Can take the day,” Jyn finishes reciting faithfully.

Saw looks at her with pride, before lowering his voice. “It is my hope you’ll have more than a sharp stick in the Arena. Your mentor will be whom you rely on to improve your odds; impress him and he can get you what you need to survive. I’ve taught you plenty—but how far you get won’t be based on your fighting skills alone.”

Jyn frowns; he can only be talking about Cassian Andor. “He hasn’t brought back any of his tributes. How can I trust him to help me?”

Saw lowers his voice even further. “You can’t. He’s been in the eyes of the Capitol for too long. But he’s your only hope in the Arena. Therefore, your only hope to get out.”

-

Saw’s words rattle around in her head as Jyn lies in her bunk. The way the train car gently sways on its tracks as it speeds its way towards the Capitol could almost be soothing, except for the fact that they’re hurtling their way to near-certain death.

…no, she can’t think like that. She tells herself it’s only a reflexive fear, borne of the circumstances that she’s been forced into of all the sheer, rotten luck in Panem. If only she hadn’t gotten reaped, she and Saw would have been able to complete their mission in a few days, then abscond out of District 5 as planned. She could have been seeing her mother again in a week’s time. If only…

Well, no use in dwelling on it now. She turns onto her side facing the bulkhead, determined to get some shut-eye before the morning brings with it the next day.

And with the next day will come the next time she sees Cassian. What transpired a few hours ago comes to mind unbidden—she had thought herself clever for kissing him to quiet his words (was he really so foolish to not think about the train being bugged?), but after he spotted the Peacekeeper approaching he reacted in kind. Taking her into his arms in a false display of intimacy like that. And it worked; the Peacekeeper quickly left them alone.

But then there was that kiss before they bid each other goodnight. He didn’t have to kiss her then, did he?

Jyn forces herself to stop thinking so she can go to sleep.

-

The morning of their first full day in the Capitol has Jyn waking up to three sharp knocks on her door.

“Jyn Erso. Breakfast is in the dining room.” That voice and crisp accent can only belong to Davits Draven, their escort. “I’d advise you to eat before you have your meeting with your stylist.”

The stylist. Kay. She had met them and the other stylist for Joule last night when they were prepared for the Opening Ceremony. But she already knew who they were in the way that most people in the districts, from the Games’ mandatory viewing, were familiar with the faces of stylists and mentors and victors and commentators amidst the ever-changing pool of tributes. Kay’s surgical augmentations were distinctive compared to the Capitol trends that ranged between somewhat natural and grotesque; his body was covered with a matte chrome synth skin, save for his face and hands which were kept as—presumably—his own pale skin tone. His eyes shone with a luminescence in the viewing stands that she could see from the chariot as the horses pulled to a stop around the City Circle during last night’s Opening Ceremony. 

Jyn gets out of bed, selects a normal-looking outfit from the closet, and joins the rest of the party in the dining room. Joule is talking to Cassian, probably for the first time since he went catatonic at the reaping. But at the sound of the glass doors sliding open, their attention is turned to her.

“Good morning Jyn,” Cassian says, his tone perfectly placid. “Care for some breakfast?”

She sits there and eats quietly while the conversation ebbs around her. Compared to the intensity that radiated off of him last night, his conversation with Joule gives off the feeling of being attentive yet distant; she vaguely wonders if he's written off her district partner as she already has.

At the conclusion of their breakfast and after Draven comes to collect Joule first for the meeting with his stylist, Cassian crosses over to her side of the table and sits down next to her. “He’s pleasant enough,” he says about Joule, “but I’m not convinced he has a chance to make it out of the bloodbath if he freezes up like that again.” He then gives her a wry look. “I trust that I don’t have to worry about that with you?”

Jyn knows he’s thinking about the way she slammed the cabin door shut on the train and then tried to fight her way through a squadron of Peacekeepers; she recalls the memory with a grin. “Trust goes both ways, right? I’ll show you what I’ve got in the Training Center.”

-

Draven brings the three of them down to the level that houses the enormous gymnasium they’re to train in for the next three days and leaves them there. Joule seems at a loss for what to do but Cassian offers to point out some of the more useful, rudimentary survival skill stations, so Jyn decides to take her own tour around the periphery.

There’s the weapon stations, of course: swords, spears, knife-throwing and the like. Then there’s the skill stations, like knot tying and snares and camouflage. Then she sees there are trainers available for hand-to-hand combat.

Her hands have been itching to come to blows with someone since that Peacekeeper held a gun to her head and Draven informed her, in his grating Capitol accent, that there was no escaping the fate decided for her the moment her name was drawn in the reaping. Jyn decided right then and there she was going to change it in her favor.

So she goes to the combat station and easily spars with a Capitol attendant there. It’s like sparring with Uncle Saw, so with a few words and a jerk of her head she has the other trainers that were supposed to be available for other tributes join in; first, as two against her, and then she takes on all three. The sparring match finally ends when she’s knocked to the ground and a foot is planted firmly on her chest, but the grin the trainer’s giving her doesn’t seem mean-spirited as they help her back up. It’s only while she takes a moment to fix her bun and catch her breath that she sees what an audience she’s gathered, including attention from the Gamemakers, and that’s when the lunch session is called.

Cassian is nowhere to be seen when she quickly scans the people who had been watching her, to her slight disappointment. But she does accept the invitation from the Career pack to sit at their table for lunch.

-

Jyn doesn’t see Cassian again until that evening after Draven comes to collect them back up to their floor in the Tower. He’s sitting in the dining room with Kay, in different clothes than she saw him in that morning. Not that she noticed.

“I heard you impressed quite a few people in training today,” Cassian says as they eat their dinner. “How was she, Joule?”

Joule has gone quiet again. He fleetingly makes eye contact between her and Cassian before he nods his head, once.

Jyn decides to save them from the awkward pause that’ll follow. “If you stuck around, perhaps you would’ve seen it.”

A look of surprise crosses his face before Cassian lets out a short laugh. “I would’ve loved to see you sweep three trained fighters, but I’ll have to wait and see you in the Games. It’s up to you if you want to team up with the Careers or not but you’ve certainly got their attention, both as a potential ally and an enemy; take care to remember that.

“Now, I want the both of you to check out all the weapons stations to get an idea of what will be available in the Arena but make sure you spend enough time learning survival skills. And Joule…”

The stricken sixteen-year-old looks up.

Cassian softens his tone. “I’m doing my best to secure sponsors for both of you. It’ll pay off in the Arena but I need you to survive for that to happen, so make the best of the next two training days and then we’ll go over final interview strategy with Draven. Alright?”

Surely he must know that Joule doesn’t stand a chance, Jyn thinks. But there’s something in the set of his shoulders that gives her the impression that the pep talk he’s giving is just as much for himself as it is for his tributes.

-

The evening following their private sessions with the Gamemakers is when the tributes’ evaluation scores are released. For the gamblers the scores dictated the odds in macabre betting pools; for the tributes, each score was a sign of who’s a threat and who can be ignored or—for the Careers—who will be easy pickings. When Jyn’s picture is shown on the screen followed by a 11, the others congratulate her and she smiles her thanks as she thinks about Saw. Is he watching her on the national broadcast? He has to be, if he’s still in District 5. Would he feel proud of her so far?

But then she has an upsetting thought: what if he’s already left the district? What if he was able to complete the mission without her and he’s already gone off to the rendezvous? What if he’s already written her off as good as dead? 

She can’t afford to think about that. After dinner she goes to the roof, wanting to get some air and privacy without locking herself up in her room. This will be the only time she’ll let herself cry, and then it’s game on. Tomorrow is the last day before the Games begin and she’ll be spending the entirety of it with Draven and Cassian.

She finds a bench to sit down on, draws her knees up to her chest and hugs her face to her thighs. It takes a moment for the tears to come, as unused to crying as she is, but she lets out the sobs and sniffles as much as she’s able to without letting herself dwell too much on her doubts.

When someone sits down next to her she somehow already knows it’s Cassian. He lightly touches her shoulder as if to ask permission, and when she finally peeks at him from the shelter of her arms he scoots a little closer and carefully wraps a comforting arm around her back.

They stay like that for a while until Jyn’s sure the tears have dried up. Then she asks, “Why’d you follow me up here?”

“I’m your mentor. You’re my tribute,” he says with amusement, as if the answer should’ve been obvious. “But… I wanted to see how you're feeling. You’ve held up strong so far, Jyn. I know you’re committed to winning this thing.”

“I am, it’s just…” Jyn bites her lip. “I can’t help being nervous.”

“Nobody can.”

“I keep thinking about the worst.”

“…Do you want help getting your mind off of it?”

Jyn can’t help how her lips quirk up at that. “Why, are you offering?”

“Whatever you need," Cassian says, not hesitant in the slightest. "I said it on the first night; I want to help you in any way possible.”

She can recognize the suggestive intent in his words. But the way that he says it expresses a fervent desire to help, purely in earnest.

So, she doesn’t feel bad when she leans in to kiss him.

-

She can’t help but think about that last kiss and the make-out session that followed each time a silver parachute comes to her in the Arena; she’s received ten so far. In the past Games Jyn’s watched it’s the Careers who receive most gifts from sponsors eager to help their favored tributes win. Although it was easy to believe that every district had underground Games betting pools with those morally depraved enough to participate, only the sponsors in the Capitol had influence over the odds; nobody in the districts had _that_ much spare money to frittle away gambling on the deaths of children.

As the Games continued on, the price of sending gifts and aid increased. Even the rich Capitolites had an hierarchy to sponsorship; only the wealthiest in excess held sway in the endgame. The Games commentators often interviewed those uber philanthropists about their enthusiasm for the Games on the publicly broadcasted Games coverage and so Jyn even knew some of their names: Laertes Crake, Cygnus Vondel, Trimalchio Plena. Having made it this far, she wonders if any of the boons she’s received were sponsored by them.

It’s nighttime in the Arena. Jyn rests in the shadows of unstable rubble, taking care to remain concealed. An unnaturally full moon illuminates the ruins of the playing field; the Gamemakers designed each night to alternate between bright moonlight and the darkness of a new moon. Instead of rest, the late evening hours brought the tributes into a deadly game of moving shadows and evasion and hunts in the dark.

Jyn wouldn’t have gotten this far in the Games without Cassian’s help; he had sent her heat vision goggles early on. The gift enabled her to evade the other tributes until more death cannons were fired, and when it came time to go on the offensive she had a frightening advantage.

But that boy from the Career pack must have gotten his hands on a pair too, because how else could he have known she was going to ambush them? He’d cut her with his blade, poisoning her with a paralytic, and she had genuinely believed she was going to die that very night. Yet her mentor's word held resolute; the sight of a silver parachute some hours into the darkness of a new moon cut through her panic. Inside was a sweet syrup that faded away the worsening stiffness in her body and left her feeling rejuvenated. She was able to get some good, actual rest for once that night.

This night hopefully she will, too. Tomorrow will be the day she has to attack the alliance stronghold, otherwise the Gamemakers might decide to set muttations on them or create some other disaster to force them into action. As she starts to doze she thinks about him. Cassian.

Going into the Games she knew she had an advantage not even the Career tributes could fathom, by virtue of being secretly trained in insurgent tactics and subterfuge by her uncle. But she had also known that what Saw said in their last words to each other was right: she wouldn’t make it far without help from her mentor. She would make it past the bloodbath and survive maybe a few days, but when the real challenges began she’d get killed by something or other, and there’d go any chance of her making it back to District 5 to complete the mission and get away with Saw.

While Jyn knew she must have earned some sponsors with her score from the Gamemakers’ evaluations, Cassian was ultimately the one in charge of handling them and dispensing gifts to her in the Arena. He might even have marshalled for her cause when she was in dire straits, such as when she got poisoned by that blade. Back in the Capitol he must be doing a lot for her and she can’t even begin to grasp what all of that could possibly entail; she owed him more than she could put words to.

And better still yet, after each night and day of fighting to stay alive, it felt nice and reassuring to be cared for. To know that somewhere beyond the Arena there was someone from back home who was doing everything they could to help you. Because they believed in _you_. If she died in the ensuing struggle tomorrow she could at least die knowing that.

But if… _when_ she wins, it wouldn’t be a lie to say she’s looking forward to seeing him again. To thank him. To let him know he sustained her both physically and emotionally throughout the Games. That just thinking of their last kiss on the rooftop did something to help temper her fears, soothe her nerves after the stress of each day, and feel more ready to face the world about to kill her.

She thinks about these things, tucks them into the warm recesses of her heart. She might be facing certain death tomorrow but she won’t let his help be in vain.

And then disaster strikes with the earthquake.

-

Time is moving too erratically for Jyn to keep up.

It had seemed immeasurably long when the earth and the Arena shook beneath her feet, sifting the crumbling ruins to dust and debris on top and around her. It was a miracle that she was still alive, that the collapse of ruins she was by had pinned her leg to the ground beneath two walls that fell to support each other. Her heart beat in absolute terror, loudly and wildly out of her chest, as she waited for the dust to settle and for any possible aftershocks to finally strike her dead.

But time sped up once more as she freed herself and made it to the general location that the alliance hideout formerly was. One moment she was emerging from her almost-tomb and in the next moment she’s leaning against the remains of a doorway to catch her breath, hardly knowing how many tributes she could take on or how many even survived.

When that dust-covered hand grabbed her ankle she had fallen in slow motion; after the eternity of one long second she was on her back, coughing as the wind was knocked out of her. Then it took several minutes to dig out her last foe—slitting her throat had only taken a second—and longer minutes still for her to bleed out and die.

Then a hovercraft whisks her away from the Arena faster than she could blink. But when it touches down and she disembarks in a stumble, the first person she sees is Cassian.

He looked as beautiful as anyone Jyn had ever known; time slows down in the beat of two seconds but she doesn’t even make it into his arms before she feels a prick and her vision suddenly tunnels out. But she still _saw him_ , and when she sees him still in the strange, continual twilight the sedatives keep her under she’s comforted.

-

He’s there when she wakes up.

It takes a while for the disorientation to wear off, but when it does she realizes that the warmth in her left hand is his hand holding hers, gently. Her vision’s still blurry but she doesn’t need to wait for it to clear to know that it’s Cassian sitting next to her, just like she knew it was him that night on the roof. Aside from his genuine smile he looks so flawlessly styled—manufactured—as all things were in the Capitol. She had liked the scruff on his jawline and the stubble heading down his throat from when they had boarded the train, but after they arrived Kay had personally made sure Cassian’s facial hair was meticulously groomed. Not a hair where it needn’t be.

She wonders how long it will take to grow back once they’re back in District 5. Back home in District 5…

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“How long have I been out for?”

“Five days. The poison that Career used to paralyze you came from a muttation; they had to detoxify your blood and run a lot of tests to make sure that it was all gone. Now, how are you feeling?”

Jyn tries to answer, but the way Cassian is looking at her makes her feel a little floaty, a little warm; like maybe the sedatives haven’t fully worn off yet. But she does manage to say, “I’m feeling okay. Thank you. Really. For taking care of me in there.”

Cassian’s gaze softens to something less intense, but still profound. He looked at her the same way after their make-out session on the rooftop, so she isn’t surprised when he leans in to kiss her.

He has to prop one arm on the other side of the bed to steady himself as their lips meet. It’s soft, chaste; they meet again, and again, and then he leans in close to her ear.

“Do you remember our first kiss on the train?”

Of course she does. “I do; why?”

“Can you pretend like that for me again? Once we’re out of here?”

It’s said like a flirt, but his words snap Jyn back to full awareness of their situation: she has just won the 70th Hunger Games. Once she’s discharged Kay and the prep team are going to prepare her for the Closing Ceremony to be paraded in front of the Capitol as the newest victor, with her stylist, prep team, escort, and mentor. And then she will be crowned, on Panem's national broadcast, by President Snow.

Her mind flits over all of their conversations. Are they in trouble? They had talked about treasonous things, but that was under the sound of a thousand tinkling wind chimes; she’s sure that Cassian wouldn’t have brought her there for a private talk to be eavesdropped on.

Or by ‘pretend’, does he mean how they faked a passionate moment to deflect suspicion?

That must be it; she can read in his face the plea for her to understand. With him this close to her, she notices there’s a tension to his body that belies the playfulness of his words.

Jyn nods before reaching to pull him closer to her and kiss him again. For now she wants to ease his worry; Cassian will tell her in due time, and then they can face it together. After the last two weeks Jyn is confident they can.


	31. left for dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: implied/referenced torture, mentions of attempted suicide, referenced brainwashing/conditioning, nonconsensual body and behavior modification, references to forced prostitution, references to forced drug use, unhappy/ambiguous ending... but if you're hoping to finish this story on a less depressing note, I've written an alternate ending: [an elpidian daydream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27702826).

When Draven gets the call to escort Cassian from the Remake Center back to their district floor in the Tributes’ Tower and stand by for a forthcoming itinerary, he doesn’t need to see his charge to know that something fundamentally wrong has happened.

The last time his schedule began with picking up Cassian from the Remake Center was that period of time after his father died, which Draven now knows the truth about. But at the time he had been told that after Jeron Andor and Irga Torres were killed in a power plant explosion that a seditioner was blamed for, Cassian tried to kill himself out of grief. After two weeks in the Capitol of being monitored in extensive in-patient therapy, he was turned over to Draven to be ushered through the media press tour for his father’s death.

How Cassian behaved back then is eerily similar to how he presently is in Draven’s custody. He’s sitting in the backseat and relaxed against the headrest, but Draven has known Cassian long enough that the lines of stress pinning him in place are plain to see. His hands folded, in his lap. Facing forward, staring ahead at nothing. A tic in his jaw, barely perceptible but one that Draven catches all the same.

But what disturbs Draven are his eyes. Unlike that first time Draven picked him up from the Remake Center, they aren’t pained or filled with misery. They’re empty, in an unrecognizable way that Draven has never seen in him before.

After furtively investigating the intendance records kept of his charge for the past four years, Draven knows what really happens when Cassian is brought to the Capitol for ‘extensive in-patient therapy’. But for a brief moment he feels something revoltingly similar to gratitude that Cassian’s conditioning is strict about needless eye contact.

-

Next morning’s briefing packet sent to his datapad has a subfolder tagged with “SENSITIVE INFORMATION: DO NOT DISCLOSE,” to be unlocked with a retinal scan. It’s a copy of Jyn Erso’s medical record and an image of a bedside chart; last night she was transported from District 5 to an elite hospital in the Capitol for treatment of a stubborn respiratory illness.

Draven knew better than to ask questions—those who did had their tongues cut out and turned into Avoxes—but he quietly looks into the matter himself while performing his job’s duties for Cassian, whose schedule is booking up like it did during the Games. Taking every precaution available to avoid detection prolongs the search, but eventually he is able to determine that Jyn’s condition is a lie. That there is no proof that Jyn is even in the Capitol.

And then, he realizes, they must not know where she is at all.

-

Cassian’s body language used to telegraph his condition after an appointment but he doesn’t seem capable of it anymore. Nowadays, no matter how badly he’s been abused by a client, the posture he affects in the car is always the same: his hands folded, in his lap. Facing forward, staring ahead at nothing. A tic in his jaw, barely perceptible.

Whatever they had Cassian relearn in therapy included perfecting his talents as an obedient whore, so he’s not often returned in a state of intoxication as he once had to be. But it’s during those increasingly rare times—and only those times—that his tongue is loosened enough to let slip some of the perpetual torment he has to live with as punishment, because of Jyn Erso’s disappearance.

It’s one such night that Draven picks up Cassian at 03:01. After the car pulls away from the curb Cassian is still for a moment, before he heaves out a shuddery breath and his arms slump to his sides.

“You know... they made it so I can’t say her name anymore.”

The words and their meaning take a moment to register with Draven. Then he says, “What?”

“Her. My tribute. The one I saved.”

He can only be talking about Jyn Erso. Draven doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t have to; tonight, Cassian is giving voice to another painful truth.

“They asked me questions about her, made me give responses with her name in it... had me read sentences aloud about her. And they would hurt me, every single time I said it, so I can’t say it. Not without pain. Not anymore.”

His raspy confession is made to the silence. “Her name was like a prayer to me. Snow must have noticed, so he took it away.” A broken chuckle. “I didn’t think something like that was possible. But, they made me learn.”

Draven doesn’t know if he should be hearing this. But when he turns to give his full attention to his charge it’s like a switch is flipped. When their eyes meet Cassian’s eyes widen before he bolts himself back into place—hands back in his lap and looking straight forward.

The only thing betraying his vulnerability are the tears in his eyes.

-

It should not surprise Draven that Cassian tries to kill himself not long after that lapse in conduct, but it still does. At least, it’s a surprise in the sense that finding out a peer of two decades attempted suicide will always come as a surprise.

The Peacekeepers come when Draven is in the sitting room, waiting for Cassian to finish showering before Kay and his prep team arrive. One moment there’s the _ding_ of the elevator arriving on their floor and in the next, six Peacekeepers are storming in.

Draven knows better than to demand answers in the heat of the moment so he stays out of their way, listens to the sound of the bathroom door breaking and boots stomping over shattered glass, listens to the sound of Cassian’s—frankly animalistic—screams as he’s subdued, and stays out of the way once again when they drag him out naked and wet and dripping blood from his arms and neck. They stand him there until a Peacekeeper returns from the bathroom with a dark fluffy green bathrobe for his modesty, and then he’s taken away.

When they make fleeting eye contact Draven is struck by the raw accusation in his charge’s eyes. He wasn’t the one who called for the Peacekeepers but Cassian doesn’t know that, and Draven knows what it looks like. But there’s nothing he can say to Cassian in any case, nothing that can change the outcome of whatever has been decided to change next about him. 

-

Draven is scheduled to pick up Cassian from the Remake Center two weeks later. He has to walk into the lobby because the lead cognitive remake specialist has requested to talk to him, to show and demonstrate Cassian’s new implant.

It’s a very thin line of a scar on the back of Cassian’s neck, invisible to the naked eye but Draven can feel it when he brushes his fingers over the skin; beneath is a subdermal electrical node, grafted onto the nerves there. The specialist explains that when activated, it prevents Cassian from making sudden or any ‘suspiciously motivated’ movements. The remote that they give to Draven is for disabling it. Later on, Draven is assigned the responsibility of disabling its function for Cassian’s appointments as well as reenabling it after each one in turn.

Neither says a word as they get into the waiting car. They don’t speak for the whole car ride back, either. But more than once Draven sees Cassian’s hand creep to the back of his neck; his fingers slowly brush the scar tissue, before his hand is carefully guided back to his lap.

-

It proves very challenging to track where Cassian had been taken after his suicide attempt; Draven is always diligent about maintaining stealth when conducting these probes, but the seriousness of the situation called for significant preventive precautions to be taken. But once he succeeded…

_…Then what?_

He was able to determine that Cassian was taken to the same complex—in truth, one of several privately held black site facilities—for another two weeks of ‘in-patient therapy’ before he was transferred to the Remake Center. His discovery process uncovered an entire network of similar private corporations and entities that operated under the purview of the government, all funded by the Hunger Games division for one apparent purpose: the victors’ covert diversion program.

But this devastative information only came to his attention from attempting to satisfy an aberrant concern for Cassian’s whereabouts; Draven wasn’t planning on actively _doing_ anything with it. Even the thought alone is treasonous: believing that victors deserved anything less than the hell that came pursuant on winning the Games was just a step below believing that the districts of Panem deserved anything more than the destitution and squalor left to them after the Dark Days. The diversion program was devised and implemented to prevent victors from believing that winning the Games meant anything other than being punished for it. Repeatedly. Because even if a new victor is crowned every year, the real winner of the Hunger Games will always remain the Capitol.

This is what Draven has always known. But then… there was Cassian.

He had come to know the boy at six years old, the first year Draven received the assignment to escort not only Irga and Jeron to the town plaza for District 5′s reaping, but the latter’s wife and son as well. Only one of the two living District 5 victors had a family, and now that Cassian was old enough to understand how to behave the Games producers wanted reaction shots of Jeron’s wife and child.

Their acquaintance proceeded as such—twice a year Draven saw the Andor boy, first at the reaping and again when escorting Jeron and Irga home after the closing ceremonies. Though he chose not to indulge in the sentiment, watching Cassian grow up through the years in such a manner often left Draven with a feeling similar to how he felt after visiting with once-a-year relatives during Wintermas.

After Cassian was reaped and won his Games, Draven’s duties as District 5’s escort were officially recategorized with Cassian as his primary charge, relegating Jeron and Irga to second priority; if they needed to be chaperoned somewhere while he was with Cassian, there was express authorization to send a number of Peacekeepers to complete the task. But for the purpose that President Snow intended to use Cassian for, only a Games escort with his discretionary expertise could do.

Draven’s choice of career tended to attract a lot of airheads and grifters, those who relished in schmoozing up sponsors or otherwise gunning for a glimpse of the glory and glamor awarded to a winning victor’s support team. But Draven derived his dedication to the job solely from esteem in his own competence; perhaps that was why the president believed his silence on Cassian being groomed and Jeron remaining unaware of it was guaranteed.

Did the president, in all of his scheming, ever consider the possibility of Draven going rogue? Yet even if he did tell Jeron of what President Snow was doing to his son it wouldn’t have changed the outcome; Cassian’s placement into a mentoring position could only be accomplished by leaving District 5’s mentorship short of a victor. Plus, he would have had his tongue cut out and turned into an Avox if Snow found out; if Peacekeepers were dispatched to interrupt Cassian’s suicide attempt quickly enough to thwart it, his treachery would have inevitably been discovered.

And where would that leave Cassian?

Another escort would be assigned, one who didn’t mind enabling Cassian after an appointment when he comes back horny and drunk or high, or in the mood for taking out his self-loathing on the only person available. Those moments of weakness never failed to stun Draven with their impact—they were cruel reminders of the fact that he is the only person in the Capitol who sees what became of a tormented boy, now constrained to his life as a tormented prisoner.

But Cassian’s new conditioning doesn’t seem to allow for any of those moments of weakness. Or rather, the implant doesn’t. His movements are mechanized and deliberate, calculated to avoid triggering the parameters for a shock, yet fluid enough that evidently he was put through his paces by his captors. Until he was well-trained, and conditioned, and devoid of any expression at all.

Suffice to say, they don’t talk anymore. What is there left to say? Nothing, not until Draven receives an update on Jyn Erso’s health status. Then a personal summons to President Snow’s office.

-

The president and a trio of his advisors are waiting for Draven. The situation with District 5’s new victor has turned critical; even with the Capitol’s elite medical advancements, Jyn is not responding well to treatment.

Draven knows it’s all lies but he agrees along with their assessment. Jyn’s untimely death before the Victory Tour may be unavoidable, and the Capitol needs to control the story behind the cause to control the public’s reaction to her death. Her condition has been kept confidential in anticipation of this very situation; several contingency plans to stage been drawn up, each optimized to account for potential blowback between the Capitol and the districts.

While each plan is pitched to weather Snow’s criticism, Draven doesn’t let any confusion or concern cross his face. Not when the president’s snakelike eyes are on his every time Draven chances a glance. He knows Snow is observing his reaction to this show of authoritarian might—whatever decision is made here will have a ripple effect throughout all of Panem. Expectably, Draven isn’t asked for any input, but he knows that’s not what he’s been called here for.

After the advisors are dismissed Draven stands alone, a respectable distance away in front of Snow sitting at his desk; the president watches him awhile before he speaks. “So, Davits. You understand how imperative it is that we control the narrative, not just here within the Capitol but for the whole of Panem.”

“Of course, Mister President.”

“I’m sure, then, you understand the necessity of what was done to Cassian.” Snow gets up from behind his desk, circling around to lean against its dark mahogany facade with his arms crossed. His stance is still threatening despite its casual assertion; Draven almost takes a step back but he remains standing where he is.

“Jeron Andor mistakenly believed that he had the power to take matters into his own hands; it can be only him who passed along the concept to young Cassian. One would think that his father’s fate taught him that attempting to do so can only end in tragedy. And yes,” he says in answer to the sudden clench of fear in Draven’s chest, “I’ve been aware of your interloping efforts to investigate Jeron and Miss Torres’ deaths. I concede that it was not a deception that accounted for close scrutiny. Rest assured that when your inquests were discovered, the advisor and those responsible for implementing the proposal were swiftly executed.” 

The president continues, “I will not question your motives for investigating the matter. I am not commending your capabilities in doing so, either. But understand this: there is nothing for you to do here except your assigned function as District 5’s escort. Nothing less, and nothing more. An unfathomably simple request. Yet if only Cassian had performed his role in the same capacity his implant would not have been deemed necessary; undoubtedly you agree that rebellious actions such as his merit consequences tailored to their severity.”

Draven’s throat is dry but his voice remains steady. “Indeed, sir.”

Snow straightens himself upright. They’re both tall people but he does have an inch on Draven in height, and his next words are spoken in a voice both paternalistic and contemptuous. “No further harm has to befall the boy, but it will be your future discretion which will determine that. Now, have I made your situation clear?”

-

Snow doesn’t know the entirety of what Draven knows about the victor diversion program then. Yet. It may only be a matter of time before Peacekeepers are at his door. They wouldn’t kidnap him for ‘extensive in-patient therapy’, not when a bullet to the head would be quicker, cleaner, and most effectively ensure his silence.

There’s only one path for him to take now; he can no longer abide by what the Capitol is allowed to demand from Cassian, not when they claw for everything within reach to cement his enslavement.

Where will his charge be a year from now, or three? What else can they take from him?

 _How did Jeron live through nineteen years of this feeling_?

It should feel daunting; the thought only registers later that night after Cassian is dropped off at the Tower and Draven is heading home. That finding a way to save Cassian will take everything he’s got, in order to go against everything he’s ever known. But Draven did not get this far in his life by second-guessing his choices, and he has never been so sure of one thing.

The next certainty is this: he’s got to find Jyn Erso.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far: thank you, thank you, thank you for reading this story. This is my first completed multichapter borne out of a 31-day challenge, yay! Some additional author's notes can be found in a coda I posted on my tumblr, [here](https://miaouerie.tumblr.com/post/635727953405280256/coda-a-pyrrhic-victoryan-elpidian-daydream).
> 
> (and one more plug, here's the link to the "better" ending: [an elpidian daydream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27702826).)


End file.
